Weak in the Knees
by qfd
Summary: Things like this do not happen to girls like her.Men like Sidney Crosby only exist in some other, more ethereal, more perfect world. But nothing and no one is ever really perfect.
1. Chapter 1

You may have a strong reaction to the beginning of this story but I beg you of gentle reader to have a little patience before you make any hasty decisions. People change, characters evolve and I hope that you will bear with both me and the characters in this story before you make up your mind about them. With that said, please read on.

This is for Shannon because she is as twisted as me, her dark twines with her light and she's alright with that.

_Would you mind if I pretended we were somewhere else,  
>doing something we wanted to,<br>'Cause all this living makes me wanna do,  
>is die because I can't live with you,<br>and you don't even care.  
><em>

_Would you mind if I pretended I was someone else,  
>with courage in love and war.<br>I use to think that's what I was,  
>but now this lying hurts to much,<br>and I don't know what for._

I'm weak in the knees for you,  
>but I'll stand if you want me to.<br>My legs are strong and I'll move on,  
>but honey I'm weak, in the knees.<p>

Would you mind if I walked over and I kissed your face,  
>in front of all your friends.<br>Would you mind if I got drunk and said,  
>I wanna take you home to bed,<br>Oh would you change your mind?

I'm weak in the knees for you,  
>but I'll stand if you want me to.<br>My legs are strong, and I'll move on,  
>but honey I'm weak, in the knees, for you<p>

_(lyrics from Weak in the Knees by Serena Ryder)_

Chapter 1

"I declare a dog fight."

It's not something that the well raised kid from a small town on Canada's East coast would normally get involved in. This was something he normally would leave to his more outgoing teammates, guys who, if someone tweeted something nasty about them, would and more importantly could afford to laugh it off. Bad press isn't something that the crown prince of hockey can afford but tonight, just for tonight, he feels like throwing caution to the wind. He feels like being a bad boy, just this once. Maybe, no, he definitely is feeling sorry for himself. It has been months since he's been able to do the one thing that makes him feel confident and he has all this pent up energy that makes it feel like ants are crawling around under his skin.

"What are the stakes?" he asks, turning to survey the women in the club. This is a regular haunt and the all of the regulars are here. There are always hot women at this club, plenty of prime tail for the boys to pick from. However, cutting prime beef from the herd was not a winning move in a dog fight.

"Whoever sleeps with the ugliest chick gets immunity from being moustache boy until the All Star break." Gronk grins when he says it because he thinks he'll win and maybe because he can grow a mean beard but that upper lip of his just refuses to push out more than the barest hint of peach fuzz. Not that that he himself can do much better, so it's a good prize, a prize worth taking one for the team for.

He surveys the crowd again, this time ignoring the girls with asses that you could bounce a quarter off of and high, firm tits ripe for squeezing. He sips the whiskey from his glass and considers a group of girls dancing barefoot around their purses.

They're not exactly barking dogs, but they certainly aren't the kind of girls that , on a regular night, he'd even look twice at. Not that he has a preference for blondes over brunettes but what he has a penchant for is an athletic build. In fact, if he had to choose, he would pick college gymnasts every time. He likes them muscular, strong, but small. He's not the biggest guy on the team, or at least not the tallest and only Cookie shares his compact but powerful build.

"What do you think?" he asks his wiry friend, the quiet one who hasn't and won't throw his hat in the ring and not just because he has a girl waiting for him at home. Other guys do too. Flower just wouldn't take part in something like this, not ever.

"Gronk will sleep with anything as long as it's got tits," the voice at his other shoulder chimes in. "You'd have to pick something with one tooth and a wooden leg to win," the broody, long haired defenseman adds before turning back to the bar.

"You just won't lower your standards," he muses, giving his teammate an elbow in the ribs. Kris does not move, does not flinch. He downs his drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stares into his empty glass.

"If I'm going to fuck something, I want it to be nice to look at," he replies as he taps his glass on the bar, looking for a refill. It must be a French thing, he thinks, the amount of booze that Max and Kris and even Flower can put down and stay upright. For himself, he is onto his third and feeling it.

"But you'd be making her night. Hell, maybe even her year," he declares, like maybe he's still talking himself into it. His chest puffs up when he says it, like he really believes he's making an offering to charity.

"Don't," his quiet friend says beside him. "It's not nice." He smiles, because normally that would be _his_ argument. Tonight he's choosing instead to go with a different philosophy, to do what Max is already doing over in one dark corner of the dance floor. Tonight he's going to pick the wallflower, the girl who would never think that in an entire month of Sundays he, Sidney Crosby, would ever even look at her twice and he's going to make her night by taking her home and making her dreams come true. It's better than making a hospital visit to hand out hockey cards to sick kids. Like Max always says, it's a fucking humanitarian donation to the female breed.

Pushing off from the bar he stalks towards the group of women, as unaware as innocent gazelles cropping at the high grass of the Serengeti. As he prowls around them, he imagines that he is the largest male lion with the darkest, fullest ruff. He is well muscled, lean and strong. He has the biggest teeth and the longest claws. He can have his pick of the lionesses but tonight he's going to...no, not a gazelle he decides as he tracks their movements with his eyes. Maybe a baby hippo he thinks as he sizes up the decidedly full trunk of one of the dancers. Or maybe a giraffe, he muses as he looks at the tall, gawky and decidedly geeky one in the glasses.

No, maybe a gazelle after all, he decides as he studies the smallest of the bunch with her dark hair pulled back into a simple pony tail and a decided lack of any kind of paint or spackle other than shiny pink lip gloss that puts him in mind of cheap five cent bubble gum. Her breasts are neither too big nor too small, though he decides that it's hard to tell in the cheap black dress that covers too much and is maybe a little too big, as if she's recently lost weight or maybe it's a hand me down. Simple inexpensive silver hoops dangle from her ears, the only adornment she wears, unlike most of the women in the room with arms full of shiny baubles and gems glittering pointing the way down to their cleavage.

She can best be described as plain, Plain Jane, and she, he decides then and there, is his charity case for the night.

* * *

><p>She harbors no delusions that she or any of her friends are the types of girls that <em>they<em> go home with but a girl can dream, can't she? She is far from the only woman in the bar with that particular dream tonight but she knows that she is less pretty than most of the other women with their plumage out, writhing in a hopeful mating dance. When she got dressed up after work and spent her last twenty bucks getting into the bar where she knows they come to play, unlike those other girls, _she_ only came to watch and maybe let her imagination run a little wild.

She imagines him sending her a drink, one that she would raise as she smiles at him down the bar and he would detach himself from his teammates and ask her to dance. She can imagine him moving with her now, to the beat of Cash Cash's '_Sexin__' __on__the__Dance__Floor__'_. She can almost feel his hands on her hips, bringing her body back against his solid, muscular frame. She can almost hear him whispering the lyrics into her ear in a voice that even when she hears it on the radio makes her knees get weak.

A shudder runs through her entire body as she sees her best friend's eyes go wide and reads her lips forming the words '_oh__my__god__'_ as she realizes that there really is a pair of large male hands on her hips and that the neck she's just wound her arm around is thick and muscular and warm. She wants to look but she doesn't want it _not_ to be true. She doesn't want her favourite fantasy to be smashed to pieces if it's just some guy, some random guy and not one of those gods of hockey and especially if it's not him.

The music changes, as if on cue, slowing down to a ballad by a woman with a hauntingly powerful voice. It's one she knows by heart. It's a heartbreaking song about wanting to be in love. She mouths the words to herself as he turns her to face him. _'__I__'__ve__never__kissed__a__sweeter__mouth.__I__'__ve__never__been__swept__away.__It__'__s__what__dreams__are__made__about_.' She finds herself staring at the mile wide expanse of a chest barely constrained by a light blue dress shirt with pearlescent buttons that catch the light of the cheesy disco ball spinning over their heads.

"Hi. My names's Sidney."

She wants to laugh except she's trembling so much and her mouth has gone so completely dry that she can't. As if there would ever be a time he would need to introduce himself or wear one of those 'my name is' stick on name tags. And not just in this city either. She knows that he can't walk down a street in Canada and not be the pride of the nation, the gold medal winning hero.

"I know," she manages to reply as she takes a peek up into the face she's seen a million and one times on TV and then zeroes in on the full, pink lips she's dreamt of kissing a million and two times. He smiles, that sort of all American boy smile that's all straight, or almost straight, white teeth and her knees start to give way. Using some kind of super power, or maybe just being very aware of his effect on women and anticipating that she will not be able to maintain her upright posture, he holds her up and that school girl laugh of his fills her ears.

The music speeds up, something with a bhangra beat and he pulls her into him and she finds herself astride his thick thigh and suddenly she has no doubts about why the commentators are always saying he has legs like a tree. Embarrassingly she lets out a squeak when she feels his hands on her ass and she can just make out his laugh above the heavy bass.

"This place is so loud." He practically has to yell into her ear. All she can do is nod. With his massive thigh pressed against her most sensitive parts it's beyond her abilities to actually form words. That would be asking too much and so would be disagreeing with anything he would say now. "Do you want to get out of here?" She blinks at him, knowing full well she looks like a lemur but she has to play each word over in her head to be sure that what he's just asked is what she thinks she's heard because of course it's a possibility that it's merely a figment of her imagination. After all, this has happened in a hundred dreams or more and there is still the distinct possibility she's dreaming now.

"Pinch me," she whispers because only that, only some short sharp pain is going to prove that he, the man of her dreams is really grinding up against her and really, truly asking her to go home with him.

"You like it rough eh?" he laughs and then gives her ass a firm swat that makes her yelp. She wants to tell him no, just because his hands are so big and, well, everything she can feel about him seems big and weapon like and she cries if she gets so much as a paper cut but the grin on his face makes it clear that he's only kidding. Blushing to the tips of her ears she tries to speak but her tongue twists and turns but she can't make a sound that actually sounds like a word. "C'mon," he whispers in her ear but he doesn't wait for her to actually acquiesce. He grabs her hand, giving her just enough time to grab her bag from the floor before he spins on his heel and tows her behind him like a boat on a trailer.

The seas part like he's Moses. One minute the dance floor is jammed with bodies and the next moment people are making way for him which seems apt as he _is_ the second coming, in this city at least. As he drags her through the club, guys ogle him like he's some kind of red Italian sports car and women look at him like he's a decadent desert covered in hot fudge sauce. Alternatively, the men they pass don't even seem to register that she is there, which is something she is used to. But the open hostility and repugnance that the women's glares are filled with, the way that their nostrils flare and their lips turn up when they look at her has her shrinking and trying to hide behind the Grand Canyon like expanse of his back sort of like she'd done in high school when she'd hidden behind her locker door when _those_ girls passed by.

She wants to say that she doesn't know why he's chosen her either, wants somehow to apologize for not having the cosmetically straightened, chemically whitened teeth that they gnash at her as she stumbles behind him. In fact, as he gives a thumbs up to two of his other teammates who are propping up the bar she's going over a thousand scenarios in her head not least of which is that he is, in fact, a serial killer and that his crimes are covered up by his teammates and the league and that she is about to become a statistic, a grainy picture on the back of a milk carton.

"Do you have a jacket?" he asks when they get to the coat check where he hands over a small ticket. She has to force herself to think about what she was wearing when she and her friends arrived at the club and then mutely nods. "Want mine?" he asks, draping it over her shoulders before she has the chance to reply.

She runs her fingers down the lapel of the brushed wool tailor made suit jacket as he hands over a ticket to the valet. The feel of the soft, smooth fabric under her fingertips and the weight of it across her shoulders is more evidence that she isn't dreaming, though she remains unconvinced. Even when the low slung, sleek dark car pulls up in front of them and he holds open the passenger door for her, she still believes that at any moment she will wake up to the sound of her alarm clock and the smell of dark coffee wafting from the kitchen.

"Where to?" he asks as he curls his large hands with their thick digits around the black leather wrapped steering wheel.

"To?" she blinks, like a lemur again and he aims that poster boy smile at her as if her reply amuses him.

"Your address, where am I going?" Taking one hand off of the steering wheel he hits a button and a screen rolls up, a map appearing on it that seems too bright in the darkness of his European sports car. "I'm not good at directions but the GPS will get us there," he adds and then tips his head and stares at her, waiting.

"Oh," she reaches for her purse and, with shaking hands, pulls her driver's license from her wallet to look at the address. Maybe it's the way his costly smelling cologne pervades the small space or the very nearness of him or maybe it's the disappointment in knowing that he won't be whisking her away to his palace in the clouds but it doesn't immediately spring to the tip of her tongue.

"Let me see?" he reaches to take the small card from her hand and even as she tries to snatch it back, his professionally honed reflexes are faster than the speed of thought and she can only wince as he holds it towards the illumination that the small screen provides. "Fern? Like Fern Gully?" He says it like he can't believe it, like it's funny, just like every single kid in high school did every time they had a sub and she bristles, just like she does every time someone says her name with that mocking tone.

"Like from Charlotte's Web, actually, but you've probably never read that," she corrects him, a spark, a glowing ember finally waking somewhere within her even as she wishes that the luxurious overstuffed leather seats of his car would somehow hide her from the scrutiny of his amaretto coloured gaze.

"You're probably right," he smiles as he enters her address into his GPS before handing her back her ID. "You look better without the glasses," he adds as he hands her back the small plastic card. She tries not to but the sound that escapes her lips reminds of the kind of squeak a dog's toy makes when squeezed. He looks over at her and laughs and then puts the car into gear and it lurches forward, pinning her to the seat.


	2. Chapter 2

_Just a reminder to please not throw things at the screen or text me death threats. Please gentle reader have patience and remember that people, or in this case, story characters can change. That being said, welcome to the next chapter._

**Chapter 2**

When he poses for promotions and marketing he knows this is a possibility but he's never been confronted with it in quite this way. As he watches her light candles around the room, small stumps of coloured wax in old wine bottles and oddly shaped glass jars, he finds a number of his own likenesses staring back at him from the walls in her room. From posters that look like they might have been stolen from bus shelters to growth charts, covers of magazines framed and the kinds of prints purchased directly from the league; everywhere he looks he is met with not just his own face but those of many of his teammates on every wall and surface of her room. Including a number of figurines on a bookshelf that's full to overflowing with thick hard bound novels.

He looks through their titles, running his finger along their spines but he only recognizes a few and most of them only from movie titles; Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, the English Patient, the Colour Purple, Wuthering Heights. To him they are chick flicks, he can't imagine taking the time to watch them let alone read them.

"Do you want something to uh...drink?" she asks. He hears the nervous vibrato in her voice and it stirs something in him that is normally reserved for the ice. He can feel his blood begin to simmer, just when he was beginning to think that he might not be able to go through with this. "I umm...I think we have some vodka and uh...I think there's some rum in the freezer," she continues, and when he turns he finds her rubbing her palms anxiously down her narrow hips.

"Sure, whatever," he replies as he reaches for the top buttons on his shirt. Her eyes get wide again and he watches with a certain amount of relish as she whets her bottom lip while watching him undo his shirt. "Don't be long," he grins and she scampers out of the room like a frightened kitten.

He sits on the edge of her narrow bed and slips off his shoes. He wonders, while he waits, if any of his teammates have ever fucked a girl underneath one of their own posters. When they talk about their conquests the next day in the room they don't discuss home decor. They talk about how big her tits were and if she swallowed or not. He's betting Fern won't. In fact he thinks, as he tugs his socks off, balls them up and shoves them into his shoes, that there probably won't be anything fancier than missionary position happening in this bed tonight. That idea makes him smile to himself but it doesn't make him give up on his mission either. He thinks that Fern looks like she needs a good fucking to loosen her up.

That thought makes him laugh out loud which makes her pause as she re-enters the room loaded down with a bottle of Absolut and two glasses. She looks like a startled fawn staring down a set of oncoming headlights and for a minute he thinks that she's going to turn tail and run from her own room but he pats a spot next to him on what he thinks might be a homemade quilt and, very slowly, her eyes go back to their regular size.

She puts the bottle down on the night stand, puts the glasses down beside it and then pours a little into each. She downs hers in one, fretful gulp and then pours herself some more before handing him a glass. He sips the clear liquid and wrinkles his nose. It isn't straight vodka, though it burns like it on the way down. It leaves a berry flavoured after taste on his tongue that he has the sudden urge to taste on her lips.

When she goes to refill her glass for a third time he pulls her down onto his lap and kisses her, hard. She resists, at first, but when his tongue swipes along her bottom lip looking for entry she relaxes against him and then he feels her hands moving over his shoulders, pushing his dress shirt back and away and that makes him smile. Maybe there is some fire in the skittish little filly after all.

He shrugs his shirt off and then moves his hands to her ass, pulling her down harder against him so that he can feel the press of her boobs against his chest and so he can grind up against her. He isn't hard, not yet. With a pretty girl, with a girl whose ass he can't dig his fingers into and whose breasts aren't more than a handful he might be all ready, but he isn't. It takes a few more minutes of fumbling with the zipper on the back of her dress and hearing her whimper when he sucks the hard little nubs of her nipples through the black lace and satin of her bra before his dick begins to stir.

He's wondered how Jordy does it, how he can take just about anything with a pulse and a set of tits back to his room on the road and still come out smiling in the morning. He's heard Gronk explain more than once how one cunt is pretty much like another but he's never believed it. But as she presses him down into her bed and slides her hand down between them to stroke him to full mast, he begins to think that Max's explanation has more merit. Max has always claimed that ugly girls try harder and the expert tug he feels as her cool hands slide over his thick, quickly hardening member makes him think Max is right.

"Do you have, y'know, something?" he asks a little breathlessly as she kisses her way down to his abdomen. She looks up at him, doing her owl impression again, and he can hear the guys in his head calling him a rookie. He has a suspicion that Tanger has a pharmacy on speed dial and that Max probably has a year's supply on him at all times, but when he'd left the house tonight he hadn't thought this is where he'd be, what he'd be doing right now.

"Maybe one of my roommates does," she says quietly and then springs off of the bed. He watches her walk across the room, her black satin panties fitting snugly across her round ass. He thinks she might have the legs of a dancer, or at least of someone that walks a lot. Her calves are muscular and her ankles have a feminine taper. As he rolls onto his back and folds his hands behind his head he thinks that this might not be not be the worst idea he's ever had.

* * *

><p>She spills out most of the contents of the medicine cabinet and digs through every drawer in the bathroom before she finds what she is searching for, two small foil squares. How long they've been in the drawer, between the first aid kit and a box of super plus tampons she doesn't know. All she knows is she's relieved she doesn't have to send him down to the all night market on the corner. If he leaves, she's absolutely certain that he won't come back. After all, she's not really sure why he's in her room in the first place.<p>

Palming the two condoms she forces herself to walk slowly back into the room even though she wants to run in and pounce on the bed like a kid waking up her parents on Christmas morning. Seeing him lying there on her grandmother's old quilt in nothing but his boxer briefs, with all those round muscles and pale skin, is kind of like having your birthday and Christmas presents arrive all at once.

"Found 'em," she calls softly, letting the foil wrappers catch the light of the nearly dozen candles in her room. He turns his head and she is forced to pause, mid step. He is, despite the slightly crooked nose and the tiny nicks and scars that shine silvery white in the shimmering candlelight, heartbreakingly beautiful. His full lips curve into an inviting smile as he reaches his hand out towards her and for one long, breathless moment, she can't move. '_This__'_ she thinks to herself, '_cannot__be__happening__'_. Things like _this_ do not happen to girls like _her_.

'_Fuck__it__'_ she decides at last, moving slowly forward until she is kneeling on the edge of the bed and putting her hand in his so he can guide her body down next to his, '_if__I__'__m__dreaming,__I__hope__I__never__wake__up._'

When his fingers slide beneath the elastic of her panties she tenses, sucking in a sharp breath until he finds that spot that forces her to blow out that breath all at once. He is not like that boy from band camp with whom she had fumbled around in the dark. He doesn't have to hunt blindly around. He knows just where to go and just what to do with his fingers to make her entire body shudder, make her cry out. He doesn't press it like a button on a game console, like a monkey pressing a button to get a reward. He strokes it, teases it and when she thinks she's about to lose her mind, he rubs it exactly the right way to make her dissolve into a thousand pieces.

"I'm gonna take these off now," he whispers in her ear and she can only nod, having once again been rendered speechless by this man who haunts her dreams. She is only able to bite her lip and does her best not to make anymore of those embarrassing noises when he kneels between her legs and holds the condom out towards her. She stares at the little foil square and then at him and swallows, audibly. She hasn't done this task more than once, maybe twice in her entire life.

'_This__is__your__dream__and__in__your__dream__you__can__do__this,__after__all,__he__wouldn__'__t__be__here__otherwise__'_ she tells herself, taking the packet and ripping it open with her teeth. She's heard of women putting these things on with their teeth but she doesn't trust herself to try, even if she thinks that it seems like a cool way to do it. The idea of being the girl that accidentally injures Sidney Crosby by trying to be cool doesn't seem like the best move right at this moment.

She hears his sharp intake of breath as she gently yet firmly rolls the latex down over the cock that she knows she'll describe to her friends as definitely being bigger than a baby's arm. She's already wondering if it will hurt. He, all of him, is bigger than any boy or man she's been with. Not that there has been a long list.

She can count the number of men she's been with on one hand. No, that's not right; _less_ than one hand and she's not really sure that the first one even counted. Really there have only been two and both of those now seem like they were a long time ago. She'd made a promise to herself that the next time it would be for love, for always. So much for that, she thinks as her fist reaches the base of cock and rolls her eyes up to meet his.

Even with the teenage groping and the not so satisfying college dorm fumbling she's never done this, this _just__because__you__can_kind of sex. She tells herself, as she slowly slides her hand up over that famed six pack, he isn't _exactly_ a stranger.

He moans, softly, when the tip of her tongue flicks against his nipple. His hands dig into her hair and then he pulls the elastic from around her pony tail and drags her fingers through her non-descript mousy brown hair until it falls around her shoulders. Not too short and not too long. Just long enough so she can pull it back at work and keep it out of her face. It used to be longer but she cut it short when she broke up with her last boyfriend. That's how long it's been.

His pulse jumps beneath her tongue as her teeth graze his neck but when she tries to kiss him he picks her up like she weighs nothing and slams her down onto the bed. She lets one of those annoying squeaks escape as he pushes her to the end of the bed and then shoves himself unceremoniously inside of her.

She gasps and not entirely in a good way. The sensation of being nearly being split in two is pain and pleasure intertwined but she isn't given time to catch her breath before his hips are slamming against hers again. He is using the edge of the bed for leverage, his massive chest blotting out the light, his muscular arms straining as he grunts above her.

Tears spring to her eyes even as she tries to blink them away. This is not how she'd imagined it would be. The candles are there and somewhere in the background A Fine Frenzy is playing but _he_ is not how it was supposed to be.

She stares at the veins popping out in his throat as he strains over her and bites down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep the tears of disappointment at bay. She had been expecting tenderness or maybe that had just been a hope. He is no better than that boy at band camp, only concerned with his own needs, with getting there as fast as possible.

No, that is not exactly fair she decides as he lowers his mouth in search of hers and she turns her face to only give him her cheek. He'd gotten her off once and that is more than most men do, or so she's been told. Her friends are always complaining about their boyfriends and how thoughtless they are so why, she wonders to herself as he grunts one last time and then collapses, did she think he would be different?

Because he is Sidney Crosby and he is supposed to be better than this

* * *

><p>She doesn't make all of the noises that he's used to. She doesn't moan or cry out, doesn't make him feel like a porn star or any kind of star for that matter and when he tries to kiss her she turns away from him and just lies there like a dead fish. Even when he rolls off of her and lies on his back, breathing hard, she doesn't try to cuddle into him and coo at him like every other puck bunny he's been with. In fact she scoots across the bed and grabs a pillow, holding it front of her like a shield.<p>

"I...I think you should go."

Not that he'd planned on staying but he is taken aback by her insistence. He doesn't argue, merely shrugging as he sits up and begins to search the floor for his clothes. She remains silent and watchful as he tugs on his pants. As he reaches for his shirt he doesn't even attempt to hide the satirical smile that tugs at the corners of his full lips as he thinks to himself that even the quiet ones are crazy. He's quite certain that even if she's having second thoughts about what they've just done she'll still be bragging to all of her facebook friends about it in the morning.

As he stoops to grab his shoes he grabs her panties off of the floor and stuffs them into his pocket. He'll need them as proof in the locker room in the morning. That's one of the rules. There has to be evidence but he isn't Max and he doesn't think there's a nanny cam in this room. She doesn't seem like the type to want to watch herself, which makes him think that it's too bad her being a prude isn't enough in and of itself to win the bet. Of course her name is Fern her reminds himself, thinking that has to be worth something.

"Well, thanks," he turns and smiles at her in the same way he would a TV camera. It isn't a real smile, not really. She's still clutching the pillow like it's her last line of defense and watching him like an animal does when they've been in a cage too long; a little eager but a little wary too. He wonders if maybe she thinks that he will ask to stay. He won't of course because there's no point. Not with a girl who gives out the milk for free. That isn't the kind of woman that he will spend the night with and just for a moment he almost regrets his choice of pawn for the game. She isn't really that bad, not with her hair loose and brushing her shoulders and with her lips bruised from his kisses. That moment quickly passes, however, when she continues to stare at him out of dark, untrusting eyes. "See ya around," he adds, leaning across the bed to give her a kiss on the cheek. She shrinks from him and his response is to shrug, roll his eyes, turn and walk out

He thinks he hears the sound of tearing paper when he reaches for the handle on the front door but he can't be sure.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Thank you so much to Shannon for letting me bounce ideas off of her, for being my muse and helping me around my writer's block and to my faithful readers for their encouragement and enthusiasm_  
><strong>

**Chapter 3**

"Pancakes? The Creature I know doesn't eat Pancakes," Jordan stares at him in disbelief but he can't keep the smile off of his face for long. "This is about Max isn't it? You're missing Talbo. Awww poor Creature is feeding his feelings," he coo's and reaches out to pinch his cheek. Sidney slaps his hand away and shakes his head.

"We're celebrating the day before camp," he mutters and scowls at his friend and teammate. The fact is, what Jordan has said is closer to the truth. It feels strange knowing that when they get to the diner the energetic Frenchman won't be there, cracking jokes and flirting with the waitresses. It is a fact of life in his line of work, that players get traded, they move around, but it's a fact that he will never get used to.

First it was Army and then Whit and Bugsy. You say you'll keep in touch, and at first you do, but just like every long distance relationship, the time between emails and texts eventually gets longer and then, the next thing you know, the only time you see each other is out on the ice.

This absence feels different though. Max is not dead but by choosing to play for the big orange birds, he might as well be. There are some guys on other teams, Ott, Avery, Carcillo that you just don't like but the Flyers is a whole different animal. Playing the Flyers is like being forced to eat a week old popcorn ball full of razorblades. He'd given his consent to Max looking at other teams. He never imagined that he'd choose _them_.

Max joining the enemy, however, is just another irritating event in a long and highly uneventful summer. A summer filled with lying in dark rooms waiting for migraines to pass and trips to a brain injury specialist for lengthy tests. Not exactly the kind of 'poking and prodding' a young, single, good looking guy looks forward to in his months off. So when he says he is so glad to be back with his teammates that he has called a celebratory breakfast, he means it.

"Look's like the gang's all here," Jordy announces as they pull into the parking lot outside the old fashioned looking diner. The guys like it here but don't eat here often. The food is comforting, heavy and greasy; definitely not the kind of carbs and fat content a professional athlete should be putting into his body during the season. Not that they can't burn it off, but there are better, more balanced meals prepared for them by the team nutritionist or their wives and girlfriends waiting for them at home. This is a special treat that he, as their captain, springs for infrequently and ingests even less frequently himself.

"I might eat all the bacon they have," TK announces as he falls into step beside them, rubbing his stomach and licking his lips.

"Maybe after I'm dead," Brooks grins and gives the younger winger a playful push. Kennedy dead-arms the defenseman and then jumps, athletically, just out of reach.

Everyone looks up when the door practically swings off its hinges as they enter, from the patrons turning on their barstools at the long counter and straining to see around and over the cheap robin's egg blue leather booths to the staff, the mostly young waitresses in their matching blue knee length dresses and crisp white pinafores to the older, more experienced women behind the counter serving the pies and hot, bitter coffee.

They don't wait to be seated. They push together as many of the chrome and Formica tables as they can find empty and pull the chairs close together. After all, they have no concerns about personal space, they are used to brushing elbows and thighs and don't feel the least homophobic around each other. White china cups are turned over and pitchers of orange juice are brought while the guys catch up, sharing stories about vacations, marlins and sail fishes wrangled, white beaches laid on, rollercoaster ridden. They are clearly the noisiest table in the place but no one, apart from one older couple in the corner, send evil eyes their way. They are the Pittsburgh Penguins. They won the Stanley Cup, albeit a couple of years ago now. Still, in this city, they can do just about anything they want.

"Guys ready to order?"

He waits for the lecherous remark but it doesn't come, at least not immediately, because Max isn't here. He knows exactly what the gritty forward would say; '_an__order__of__you__right__here__on__my__plate_' or '_how__about__you__with__a__side__of__me_?' The waitress will blush and maybe pretend to be mad but she won't be. Not when she's already counted the tip they'll leave her in her head.

"How about your number, gorgeous?" Jordan pipes up and the momentary silence at the table is broken.

"Looks like you already gave her more than your number once," Cookie pipes up sarcastically. He hasn't even looked up from his menu, but he does now as a flurry of congratulatory remarks is offered from everyone near the end of the table.

She's beaming at them all, one hand on the note pad in her hand the other protectively covering most of the barely there tell tale bump of her abdomen and then her gaze changes to the same haunted mistrustful look he remembers.

He knows that most if not all of them men at this table have long forgotten that night and the women that they were with. For himself, he has not been able to forget. In fact, he has often blamed himself and her for the multitude of setbacks he's experienced since that night. A man compelled by superstition he has looked back on that night and what he did as the beginning of a string of bad luck.

He had been supposed to play in the playoffs and had developed an inner ear, sinus issue that had caused him to lose his balance. Bouts of nausea and vertigo followed that forced him to stop even the lightest of work outs. Even now, though he feels well enough to play he knows it will be weeks if not months before he is cleared to do so and hockey his life. He is not a happy young man.

* * *

><p>Her hands shake as she takes their orders. She tries to tell herself they are now worse than the crowds of rowdy drunken college boys that come in the diner on a Friday night, but when it comes time to take his order her imagination and her courage fail her. Her knees give and she has to reach out for the nearest shoulder to stop herself from falling.<p>

A pair of kind eyes, heavily fringed with dark lashes and shaded by even heavier eyebrows, stare up at her, concerned in a fatherly sort of way. She flashes him a quick smile before regaining her composure, taking a steadying breath and, without looking at him, writing down his order of silver dollar pancakes, turkey bacon and scrambled eggs.

She manages to keep her feet as she walks slowly back to the counter where the rest of the diner's staff is waiting for her with quickly fading grins. They'd let her take the table, knowing that she will soon need all of her tip money, but they had not told her _who_ was at the table.

"Fernie? Are ya feelin' a little light headed?"

"Is it mornin' sickness? I remember when I..."

"Do you need to sit down?"

"Here let me put the order in for you sweetie."

Fern tears off the sheet and hands it to one of the older women who shouts the order into the kitchen while one of the other waitresses helps her to a stool behind the cash register. Her entire body shakes as she tries to perch on the barstool. It's been bad enough, hard enough, coming to terms with the consequences of that night without having to face him too.

At first it was just the gut wrenching disappointment in him. But when she was the most honest she knew she was mostly disappointed in herself. She had never been that girl, the one to give herself away like cheap take out, but for him she had made an exception and she has spent every hour of every day since that night wishing that she hadn't and no more so than the day that she realized that it wasn't just her shame and disillusionment that she was going to have to live with.

"Is this some kind of joke?" She knows his voice and despite everything whenever she hears it on the radio or even from a television in the next room the sound of it still has the capacity to make her weak in the knees. It is the last thing she wants to do but she forces herself to raise her gaze to meet his accusing one and shake her head. "It better be some kind of joke," he hisses at her, narrowing his eyes, the ones she had always thought looked like they belonged to some romantic hero from one of those novels about men who literally sweep women off of their feet. She no longer harbours those delusions about this man, or any man.

Getting uneasily to her feet she brushes past him, heading for the door and the warm late summer sunshine. She turns her face up to let it bathe her skin as she waits for the door to close behind him. She is, once again, alone with Sidney Crosby and an ironic smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

"That's not mine, right? I mean, who knows how many other guys you've been with," he snarls at her, pacing the sidewalk in front of the diner. Everyone can see them from the inside, a fact she knows very well, and so keeps still and keeps her face turned away from all of the windows. Taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders she shakes her head.

"I haven't been with anyone else," she answers quietly. Her reply stops his pacing and then he too becomes very still.

"I know about girls like you. I know what you're after. You won't get it you know," he snarls from threateningly close range. So close she can feel the warm spittle on her cheek. Despite her best attempt at remaining calm she begins to shake and tears form in her eyes. She'd done her best not to imagine some sort of fairy tale outcome where he would tearfully tell her that he was so happy and that they should get married immediately, if not sooner, but the viscous tone in his voice reminds her too much of a step father that doesn't want her, a beloved teacher disappointed in her and a boss giving her hell for dropping a plate and so she does what she always does when faced with a person in a position of power over her – she cries.

"I never...I won't ever ask for...I don't want anything from you," she sobs, hiding her face and her tears in her hands.

* * *

><p>The right thing to do when a woman is crying is to console them but he can't touch her; not in front of the couple just getting out of their navy blue Chrysler mini-van; not in front of the older couple exiting the diner, holding hands and giving him a disapproving look. If he touches her it is like admitting that he knows her and he's had far too many warnings, sat in on far too many lectures from the team's and the leagues legal counsels to do that. The first thing he's been told to do – deny.<p>

"We used protection so it can't be mine," he states as if there is no doubt in his mind when that in fact is far from the truth. Looking at her now with her cute little pig tails, her soft petal pink lip gloss and those cats' eye glasses he can't imagine Fern having a line up of college boys waiting outside her bedroom door.

"Condoms fail at least three per cent of the time," she replies in a small but unemotional voice as if this answer has been rehearsed, "and I'm pretty sure that particular one had expired," she adds in an even small mouse like squeak. He feels his blood boil and has to jam his hands into his pockets to stop himself from grabbing her and shaking her like a misbehaving child. He has never put his hands on a woman in anger but he is coming close right now.

"So you did it on purpose," he growls, rolling and unrolling his hands into fists. He's been warned, time and again, that this might happen, that some woman would come along and try and trap him. He'd thought he'd been smarter than this.

"No," is her strangled but adamant reply. "I didn't look...I didn't know," she tries to explain, keeping her gaze focussed on the cement at her feet while she snivels like a child caught with her hand firmly in the cookie jar while denying it right to his face.

"Well you have to get rid of it. That's all there is to it." It's clear in his mind and he knows for a fact that both Max and Jordy have paid for terminations before. All he has to do is ask where and how much it this can all be taken care of, cleaned up, over, history.

"It's kind of too late now." Up until this moment he hasn't done the math but now he counts the weeks off in his head, twice, just to be sure.

"There's a fucking time limit?" he hisses, more to himself than her. There seem to be more rules to this than he was aware of.

"Yeah, I think so but...not like it matters. I'm having it. I've already decided that," she says in a quavering but still the firmest voice he's ever heard come out of her mouth.

"Well you can't," he says just as firmly, closing the gap between them and grabbing her by the shoulders, digging his fingers deep into her slight frame. "I don't know what you're gonna do but you're not...you're just fucking not." Slowly she raises her gaze to meet his, tears streaming down her cheeks, her bottom lip trembling but defiance in her eyes.

"You. Are. Such. A. _Jerk_." The defiance is there and then gone as a sob he can tell she's been trying to hold back escapes her lips right before she tears herself free from his grasp and runs back inside. He watches her go, part of him wanting to march after her and obtain her promise to do what he knows has to be done, to erase the evidence of this one, stupid mistake and yet he can't make his feet follow her inside. He can't face the guys, knowing that he couldn't walk on the wild side just this once without fucking it up.

He feels for his keys in his pocket and his entire body sags with relief when he finds them there. Jordy will get a ride home with someone else. Cookie has plenty of room in his SUV. Right now he needs to be alone to think and also because he's scared out of his fucking mind.

* * *

><p>"You okay honey? You want me to look after your tables for a bit?" She shakes her head as she runs her glasses under the tap and then reaches into the cool water to splash her face. "You never told us you know...y'know, <em>them<em>," the older waitress with the pen behind her ear wearing the concerned but eager expression adds as she glances towards the rowdy table.

"I don't," she replies swiftly, holding her wrists under the running water and keeping her gaze turned away. If the woman starts asking why she's been crying Fern knows that she'll come apart completely.

"Oh I just thought...it looked like...," the woman sputters, clearly trying to retreat from her enthusiastic tone. Fern tries her best to smile as she slips her glasses back on, though it takes nearly all of her energy reserves to do so and then slides past her and heads to the pass where plates are already stacking up. She takes a platter and slides three of the plates onto it, balancing it carefully on one forearm while she grabs a carafe of orange juice in her other hand.

"Can I help?" she almost drops everything when she finds herself suddenly looking into the soulful brown eyes of the Penguins net minder.

"No...I mean, you're not even supposed to be back here," she adds, flashing him a grateful smile.

"Then we won't tell anyone, d'accord?" he smiles and takes the carafe so that she can grab another plate.

"You're her, aren't you?" he asks quietly, leaning close to her as he grabs a pot of coffee, "the girl from the club?" She blushes to the tips of her ears and has to steady herself for a second time. She is about to deny it when she turns to find his warm and endearing smile shining back at her like a new penny. "Don't worry," he adds with a wink. "I won't tell anyone."

"Ummm, thanks?" she squeaks, wondering exactly what he means by it. He doesn't say anymore, just turns and heads back to the table. She follows him, taking deep breaths in and blowing them out until she feels her heart rate slow. She smiles when she slides the plates in front of faces that feel familiar and smile up at her so warmly that she can't help but smile back at them.

"Hey, where did Creature go?" Jordan calls out and immediately the warm fuzzy feeling is gone.

"He…he said he had to go, something came up," she sputters an apology for him before she even realizes she's doing it. Heads nod all around the table and even from the little that she knows of him she realizes that she's given an acceptable excuse. Only three sets of eyes turn and stare back at her, disbelief clear in their gazes. Turning quickly on her heel she makes a beeline for the kitchen without looking back.


	4. Chapter 4

2 chapter in 24 hours might be some kind of record for me. Thanks to Shannon for being my cheerleader and helping me focus. You're the bees knees baby.

Chapter 4

"Well champ, I'm not going to say I told you so." He rolls his eyes to heaven as he paces the dim room with its wood paneled walls, built in book cases filled with memorabilia surrounding an antique walnut desk behind which sits his mentor, the man who understands him best. But it isn't Mario who has spoken. Sidney glances at the lap top and the burly man with his sagging jowls staring out from its confines.

"Go ahead, get it out if it will make you feel better," he suggests with a sullen scowl.

"Well if you'd been more careful..."

"I _was_ fucking careful. I used protection. I don't even know if it is mine. I mean, they lie right. I could be worried about nothing." He runs his hand through his thick, dark hair and goes back to pacing the merlot coloured plus carpet. There is part of him that is fuming that Mario immediately involved his father in this and part of him that is deeply mortified that either man has to know.

"We'll commission a paternity test, obviously, once the kid has been born but until then...," Mario begins, his sky blue eyes mirroring the concern that Sidney knows is brimming in his own eyes. Sidney knows that the Mario the Great has been in his shoes and empathizes. He also believes that he is the reason the man on Skype didn't make it the big time when a shy, serious girl from a small town got pregnant.

"I know, I know, a non disclosure agreement," he mutters, chewing anxiously on the corner of his bottom lip. It feels like a clinical, cold thing to do but he knows it is necessary. He also knows that far less well known players than he have delivered the same documents to women with stars in their eyes and crushed their dreams. He's heard the stories. He doesn't have the stomach for it.

"Obviously, but we should talk about your options," Mario adds quietly. Sidney sighs and shakes his head.

"She says she's passed that point," he mumbles, half to himself, picturing the swelling at her abdomen that looks like it would fit in his hand. Self consciously he curls his hands into fists at his sides.

"Oh and so she's a fucking doctor now?" his father barks and Sidney sends him an annoyed and impatient glare. "No, I didn't think so. Have her see one of the team docs and have them confirm things," he brashly suggests, as if he too can order the staff of the Penguins around. Sidney looks apologetically towards Mario who slowly nods his head and Sidney's shoulders slump. Two against one; the odds seem stacked against him.

"I don't want her anywhere near the arena. Can't someone just take her the contract? I mean, if she signs that then I don't have to think about it until the uh...the DNA test or whatever," he says hopefully, maybe a little too hopefully by the patient but sombre expression his mentor is wearing as he looks back at him.

"There are certain steps that need to be taken," Mario begins but his father's disdainful snort drowns the soft spoken Frenchman out.

"Yeah like if you'd taken a little more thought about what kind of tramp you took home." He glares at his father, wishing that he'd be more sympathetic and knowing that there's little chance of getting more than this, sarcasm and humiliation.

"She wasn't...," he catches himself before he tells his father that she is the least likely looking puck fuck and decides against it before his father decides that the best medicine is for him to catch the next flight out and play the heavy himself. If he'd made the girl cry, his father would give her a nervous breakdown. "Fuck it! It's probably not even mine. It's probably some stupid stoner that does the dishes there or something. The fucking condom was fine. I looked, I know."

"Well, actually..." The sound of Mario uncomfortably clearing his throat drags Sidney's attention back to his mentor who looks ill at ease as he shrugs his wide shoulders. "I have heard of a few instances where the girls have saved the contents and ah...inserted them later." He's not sure if he's ever heard a silence that sits more heavily in the room than does the one that falls amongst them now. He stares at his Mario, trying to imagine being so desperate and his mentor merely shrugs as if to say that he is merely putting the possibility out there.

"Fuck," is his only answer.

"Yes well, I think we should meet with the young woman, determine her demands," Mario adds reasonably, tapping his pen on his open date book as if to do no more than schedule a doctor's appointment.

"Jesus, it's not a fucking kidnapping," Sid exclaims, finally falling into one of the high backed leather chairs.

"Sure it is son," his father guffaws, "of your fucking wallet, your future..."

"I'm sure there's a reasonable figure we can come to," Mario interjects in his calm, rational tone, "if, as you say, she doesn't immediately seem to be quite the type to look for a large sum."

"Hey, Lemieux, before you go offering my son's nest egg up, let's talk to this little bitch about getting a fucking abortion." The word is so ugly it makes him wince and Sid finds himself trying to huddle into the chair, as if it can protect him, as if it can keep the world at bay.

"I certainly think it would be best to sit down and have an adult conversation about both of your options before we do anything else," Mario reiterates, in his patient fatherly tone. A tone Sidney's father only rarely uses with his younger sibling.

"You mean superstar here has a kid he sends a birthday card and a Christmas present to once a year?" Sid sighs and shuts his eyes against the smug look on his father's meaty features.

"_Daaaad_."

* * *

><p>"Fernie, you've got a guy in your section asking for you."<p>

She glances anxiously over her shoulder, something she's been doing now for days, but the only man she can see is wearing a nice suit and smiles warmly at her.

"You let me know if there's anything else you need," she tells the older couple as she finishes filling their coffees. They barely take the time to even smile at her; they're already tearing into their breakfasts like it's the only meal they've had for a week. She turns the white porcelain mug over and begins to fill it before she looks up at him.

"Decided what you'll be having?" she asks as the mug fills with the dark steaming liquid.

"Just the coffee'll be great," he smiles again, all dimples and straight white teeth. She smiles back at him. It's hard not to. He's got those all American quarterback good looks and a sparkle in his eyes. She's about to turn and go back behind the counter to refill her coffee jug when he pulls out a folder and puts it on the table in front of him. She's used to some of the college kids coming in here and doing homework late at night, but usually that's on their expensive lap tops. The only paper she usually sees in the diner is the sports section. "I'm lookin' for someone," he says, aiming that line of perfectly straight white teeth at her. "Maybe you can help me."

"Sure, if I can," she says, perking up and standing a little straighter as his grin broadens. Other than some of the construction workers that come in here and a few of the regulars, most of the customers don't notice her. She's not pretty enough to compliment or flirt with and she hasn't got her bosoms on show like a couple of the other waitresses so when someone pays any kind of attention to her it's hard not to feel a little bit better. "So are you like a cop or something?" she asks, imaging herself in an episode of Criminal Minds, giving the clues to Special Agent Derek Morgan that will solve the case and then maybe she could be friends with Penelope...

"Are you Fern Smith?" She blinks at the man who keeps smiling up at her like she's a Victoria's Secret model but now she doesn't feel like a shiny new dime. Not only does she hate the way her name sounds, plain and boring to the point where she's been accused of either making it up or being in witness protection, but just the way he says it makes it sound like whatever is in the folder in front of him can't possibly be good news.

"I am," she says slowly, taking the rag out of her pocket and sliding it over the disused side of the table, just to keep her hands busy and so she doesn't have to look at his square chin and high cheekbones.

"Well Fern, why don't you sit down? I think you and I have some things to talk about." It's almost as if someone has stuck a shiv in her back, she has to suck in a sharp breath through her teeth and she puts the coffee pot down and leans on the table.

"I'm...we're not supposed to," she mumbles and sends a glance towards one of the more senior waitresses behind the counter.

"Oh...I think you should," he says mildly, opening the folder and taking out a stack of papers with tiny writing on them. "I think we'll be a while."

* * *

><p>"You did what?"<p>

He doesn't look up. In fact he does his best not to react at all but he does have to re-tie his skate, which he takes his time in doing before he looks up at where his two teammates are standing over him looking less than sympathetic.

"It's a non disclosure agreement. Pretty straightforward," he replies as dispassionately as he can and then reaches for his other skate and slips his foot into it.

"You let someone else take it?" Dupers sighs, "pretty chicken shit don't you think?"

"That poor girl, as if you haven't put her through enough," Flower adds, shaking his head so that his long, stringy dark hair falls into his eyes. He shakes it away but continues to stare at Sid who continues to tug at his laces as if he can force them into submission. He likes to be in control. He is in control of this, just one of the reasons why he has so many superstitions. If he puts his right skate on before his left, things might go better today than they did yesterday.

"That _poor__girl_ got into bed with me pretty easily," he replies calmly but sternly, mimicking the things his father has said, things he can't get out of his own head. "She probably planned it," he adds with a shrug as he sits back and leans against the wall, looking towards the centre of the room where the Pens logo seems to stare back at him.

"_That_ girl?" Dupers smirks and shakes his head. "I don't think so."

"Je suis d'accord." The shy, soft spoken goalie always falls into French when he's rattled and it makes Sid look up at him. "Elle est douce. Elle n'est pas un chercheur d'or."

"Yeah, you know that for sure? What did you talk to her for like a minute and you know more than I do?" Sid tips his head to the side and considers his usually quiet friend for long enough that the net minder lets his hair fall back over his eyes, giving him a veil of hair to hide behind. "Yeah, didn't think so," he sighs and then gets to his feet and turns his back on his teammates, reaching for his practice jersey.

"You should have at least done it in person," Dupers says in that gruff father knows best tone that sometimes works on some of the younger players when they get out of line. It's not a tone he often has to take with road roommate and it makes Sid bristle.

"Like I can do that. Like I'm gonna sit there in a diner long enough to tell some puck slut that she can't go to the papers. She gets a cheque, she signs the contract and then we reconvene when the brat is born to see if it's even mine. Why should I get involved?" he snarls, tugging the jersey over his head and reaching for his helmet.

"Because, it would have been the right thing to do," Pascal hisses in a tone that's bordering on threatening. "And because you and I both know that little girl didn't do this on purpose." Sid doesn't reply. He doesn't disagree. He holds his tongue and waits for his teammate to go back to his spot in the dressing room and only then does he make his way out onto the ice, before any of his teammates can spoil the fresh sheet and so that he can clear his head which has begun to pound.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Thanks to Mel for the info, Shan for her support and inspiration and my readers for their encouragement, enthusiasm & patience!_**

**Chapter 5**

"It's done." He looks down at the papers that have just been slid across the table and stares at the signature.

"She signed it?" It's more of a statement than a question but he can't hide the surprise in his voice. As he looks at the signature he can't help but imagine that her hand shook as she signed it and he wonders if the man sitting across the table from him intimidated her. He wonders if she cried.

"She didn't take the cheque either." He looks up and across the table and blinks at the Penguins junior legal counsel in disbelief. "I know, it surprised me too but she said she wouldn't either. She was pretty adamant that she won't take money from you." He knows he should feel relieved but as he pushes the stapled sheets around on the table in front of him he doesn't. If anything he feels even more anxious. There's something disquieting about her refusing the money that he knows is going to have him wanting to look over his shoulder from now until...he counts the months off in his head – five months.

"But she signed it," he says, almost as if to remind himself that there is a positive here, that the paper in front of him represents at least a measure of security.

"Oh and she wanted you to have this." The young lawyer slides a folded piece of paper across the table towards him. Sidney stares down at unsure what to expect next. He half expects the paper to cut him as he reluctantly reaches out to pull it to closer to him. He toys with the corner of the page as if he's expecting something to crawl out from beneath it, something sharp and poisonous to sink its teeth into him. He wonders if it's a demand, if the amount they offered to keep her quiet wasn't enough. If she wants more he knows he'll be back to listening to his father say I told you so.

Folding the paper open he stares down at the one word scrawled across the middle of the yellow, lined foolscap page in neat, feminine handwriting – COWARD.

The corner of his mouth turns up in a satirical grin. There's that spark of fire in her that he's seen only briefly on both occasions that he's been with her. His amusement fades quickly as his mind races ahead, already considering the possibilities, the worst case scenarios. Facing the press in Pittsburgh would be one thing but if this got out back home it would be a scandal of epic proportions. The press scrums he's faced over the years over simple, straight forward things like injuries would be nothing in comparison to the ones he'd face over something juicy like this.

"You explained it to her, right? You told her she can't go to the press?" he asks, looking apprehensively across the table. The young lawyer smiles confidently, leans back in the high backed leather chair and twirls his silver pen in his fingers.

"Oh yeah, I told her."

* * *

><p><em>Earlier that day<em>

She looks down at the papers he's placed in front of her with the highlighted spaces awaiting her signature. The pen is in her hands but the words swim, meaningless, before her. Looking up, she watches the young professional in his expensive suit drain his cup and set it down, his smug grin returning.

"Take your time," he advises, sounding to her much like a used car salesman trying to make a sale, "make sure you've read it over." She nods and goes back to reading the same section that she's already read over and over again, doing her best to decipher the legal jargon and looking for clues, for a sentence that will tell her if anything in the contract that's been placed before her will result in her worst fear coming to fruition.

"Can he take it? Is there anything in here that says he can take the baby?" She searches the south pacific blue ocean coloured eyes of the man across the table but his expression remains smug.

"You think he wants it? He just wants you to keep the snotty brat the hell away from him," he says, his eyes crinkling in the corners when he says it, his grin growing, like he thinks what he's just said is funny as hell. She looks back down at the sheets of crisp white paper covered in dark black type and then back up at him.

"So this...," she says slowly flipping the page over and running her gaze down the sections that forbid her from selling her 'story' to any magazine or media outlet, from giving interviews or worse, black mailing the Crown Prince of the NHL. "I sign this and he...leaves me..._us_, alone?"

"In a matter of speaking," he chimes in, seeming pleased with her reply, "y'know until the kid is born and then you agree to have the kid swabbed or whatever and they do the test and then if it really is what you say it is, you agree to some kind of figure and get your payments once a month and keep your trap shut." It hurts. It teels like a stake through her heart but she nods and keeps her opinion of his version of what is in the contract and the contract itself to herself.

"Okay," she says quietly, taking her own, cheap five cent pen from her pocket. Her hand shaking, she begins to sign on the highlighted line and then stops. "Did he send you, or did they...did someone _else_ send you?" She doesn't know why but she knows the answer to this question is important.

"You think he has time for shit like this?" His mocking laughter has head turning and try as she might, Fern cannot keep the blood from rising in her face, burning to the tips of her ears. Gritting her teeth, she presses her pen to the paper and signs her name.

"Fine," she says through clenched teeth as she flips to the next page, "but I want you to take him back a message from me."

* * *

><p>He sits behind the wheel of his expensive SUV, sheltered from the early fall drizzle and watches the diner. He watches the clients going in and out, the college kids with their lap tops and their book bags, the old women with their shopping strollers, and the young mothers with their children in tow. He doesn't go in. That had been his intention but his courage has failed him.<p>

He sees her deliver a pair of plates to an elderly couple near the window. She smiles brightly at both of them and then laughs, her entire face transforming as she tips her head back, a broad grin brightening her face.

When she disappears from sight again he drums his fingers on the steering wheel in time to a country song on the radio and tries to gather his wits about him. He has a cheque in his pocket. He believes if she takes it he will feel better, more secure. It will give him piece of mind and chase away the pounding ache behind his eyes but the longer he sits in his vehicle the more he begins to listen to the voice in the back of his mind telling him that he has to admire her, just a little, for having the testicular fortitude to tell him to stick his cash. If she was a guy, he would shake her hand but she is not.

When she reappears, at a different window and serving a younger couple, her hair is down, the way it was when he rakes his fingers through it, and he thinks, just as he did then, that she is not as ordinary as he keeps thinking that she is. It takes him a few moments to realize that she is no longer wearing her uniform, that she is wearing a snug fitting black sweater, the more dramatic colour suiting her pale skin. She smiles at this couple too and they talk for a few minutes, her standing at their table looking like any of the college girls on the streets in this area.

When the couple stand he realizes that he knows them, that it's MAF and Vero and his fingers cease their drumming on the steering wheel.

* * *

><p>"I couldn't," she shakes her head but he is already fishing in his jacket pocket for his keys.<p>

"C'est absurd," he insists, his long dark hair falling into his eyes as he slides along the banquette until his long legs push him up to his full height. "We don't mind, ce n'est pas juste V?' he adds, holding his hand out to his strikingly beautiful girlfriend with her shining hair the colour of a raven's wing.

"We go right by there," she smiles, her face lighting like a neon sign. Of course she is the kind of girl they date, a WAG, with perfect teeth and perky breasts but Fern knows Veronique wasn't always like that and now that she's met her, she likes the shy, unassuming French Canadian girl. "It's no trouble. You cannot go out in the run, pas avec un bébé sur le chemin," she adds with a wink and a meaningful glance towards the bump that is even more noticeable bump now that she is wearing her favourite knit skirt. Fern smoothes her hand over the slight swelling and decides not to argue.

"Well thank you. I mean...you don't know me," she begins and then drops her voice to an almost whisper, "I don't know why you're being so nice to me."

"Because Sid is being a putain connard," Marc André growls as he reaches for the jacket that is lying over her arm. She looks down at it and then blinks up at him as she lets him take it and then turns so that he can help her into it.

"He's not always," Veronique whispers conspiratorially, reaching to squeeze Fern's hand before she also turns around to let Marc André help her into her jacket. "I think it's this head injury. He isn't quite himself." Fern nods, as if she agrees but inside she is rolling her eyes and wondering if Sid's friends and teammates always defend him.

As Vero reaches to link her arm with Fern's and the two of them follow the Pens goaltender towards the exit, she can't help but think that today has turned out better than it started.

* * *

><p>He watches his friend's girlfriend climb into the back seat of Flower's white Escalade while MAF holds the passenger door open for Fern. His teeth grind together as his teammate smiles broadly at something she says before he closes the door. This feels like a knife in his back, a betrayal of epic proportions. It's one thing to disagree with how he is handling this situation but to go behind his back and meet with her makes his stomach churn and his head pound.<p>

To make matters worse, as the lean net minder walks around to the driver's side Flower aims a tooth filled grin in his direction making it clear that he knows they are being watched.

Sid grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white and as his teammate's vehicle pulls out of the parking lot he stares angrily after it, muttering threats and violent promises under his breath but as reaches for his phone he knows that he cannot pick this fight. He has already alienated his road roommate and picking a fight with Flower would mark him as the black sheep of the team in short order.

He pounds the steering wheel with his fist and then rests his forehead against it. Nothing about this has gone as planned and he feels helpless; as helpless as he feels against his injury. It feels like everything and everyone is conspiring against him at once and he can't see a light at the end of the tunnel.


	6. Chapter 6

_Happy Turkey Day to those of you in the States. Eat lots and for crying out loud, enjoy Nickelback at half time will ya!_

**Chapter 6**

"Thank you for dinner," she sighs as she looks at her empty plate and then across the table at the gentle smile of the woman who made it.

"Well after you told us what you had plans to eat, what could we do?" Veronique beams a playful smile in her direction and then pushes her chair back, taking her own plate that still has a few spoonfuls of mashed potato and half a slab of pork roast on it. It's no wonder the girl is wafer thin.

"There's nothing wrong with macaroni," she replies, pushing her own chair back and reaching for Marc's plate.

"You sit," Veronique, whom Marc affectionately calls V and who has instructed Fern to call her Vero, smiles and leans in to kiss her boyfriend's cheek before she takes his plate and cutlery and heads towards the kitchen with its stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, terracotta floor tiles and glass tile backsplash; the best and newest of stares after her, partly grateful to sit and let her dinner settle, while the other part of her knows she would be more comfortable elbow deep in hot sudsy water, talking girl talk and waiting for the kettle to boil than sitting across the table from the slight young man with the kind eyes and the soul patch.

"She's so pretty," she says finally, shooting him a shy glance. His thin lips pull into a wide grin as he sits back in his chair, hands on his flat stomach as if he can feel the food working in his belly.

"Oui," he agrees as if it's something he hears every day and she thinks that maybe he does. Maybe every single day someone tells them that they're a cute couple.

"I noticed the ring," she adds a little sheepishly. The big gem is hard to miss, though Vero doesn't make a show of it. "So, you're finally going to do it? Get hitched?" Marc inclines his head and shrugs his broad shoulders. The whole city knows that the two of them have been together since they were kids, that the kind, pretty girl in the kitchen has been waiting patiently for years for the Pens goalie to pop the question. "Can I ask...I mean...if you don't mind, what took so long?"

"He wants a big family." Fern jumps, as much as it's possible to, in her chair when Vero reappears with a plate of small fancy pastries, the kind that you keep frozen in case company shows up that she slides into the middle of the table and then wraps her arms around Marc's neck. He puts his hand over bother of hers, making hers' disappear, and presses his cheek up against hers'. It's an endearing sight and one that makes her feel very alone.

"So uh...shouldn't you be getting started instead of putting it off?" she asks, reaching for a small tart and lifting it to her lips. A blast of tart lemon pours over her tongue and she licks the frosting from her lips. When the silence has drawn out to the point of becoming uncomfortable, she looks up at the adorable pair expecting to find them smiling in that sort of secretive knowing way couples do but instead neither is looking at the other and the air around them feels heavy with things unsaid. "Or there's lots of time, no need to rush, y'know, like me," she quickly adds, turning the attention back on herself. "Is there more of these?" she adds, holding up the now empty aluminum cup.

"Oui, be right back!" Vero brightens and disappears towards the kitchen while Marc gives Fern a grateful smile.

* * *

><p>There is always someone's daughter, niece, or sister being offered to him. Usually he tries, as politely and politically as possible, to turn down the offers of pimped out family members but it isn't always possible and sometimes, like tonight, he doesn't mind the company. Tonight is not a night for a power shake and a pb&amp;j in front of the tube. Tonight he does not want to listen to the voices in his head. Tonight he doesn't mind the incessant and nervous chatter of the blue eyed blonde seated across the table, the highlights in her hair glowing like spun honey in the flickering candle light.<p>

She is a little thin for his taste but he already knows that this will not be going anywhere. She is only a momentary distraction, a tool not unlike his stick or skates, to keep him from thinking too much, from brooding. He doesn't even need to listen to what she is saying. He's become adept at nodding and making the correct sounds at the right times to keep her talking. He uses the same skills he's developed over years of dealing with reporters to give her just enough information without actually telling her anything at all.

Not that she seems to notice. She preens like a peacock and her smile brighten volubly every time he looks directly at her. This is a big deal to her but not to him. He's hardly even touched his pasta. It's not the carb loading that he has a problem with, but his appetite has been oddly absent since he got back into town.

"Do you want to get out of here?" he asks, motioning a passing waiter for the bill. Her eyes get wide and she looks down at her still half full plate, the lobster barely touched probably because she hasn't figured out how to eat it gracefully. He briefly wonders why women are always ordering it if they aren't actually going to eat it.

"You mean like a club?" she asks, looking down at the lobster like she's considering putting it in her purse.

"No," he says simply. He doesn't expand, he doesn't need to. The blush that rises in her cheeks is evidence enough that she understands his meaning clearly. He wants to erase Fern and the entire idea of unwillingly becoming a father from his mind. One way to do that is to practice, hard and often, but the team's brass isn't ready to let him do that. So the next best thing is a warm body, in his bed, to help him take his mind off of everything else. "Ready?" he asks as he gets up, drops a hundred dollar bill on the table and holds his hand out towards her. She glances longingly one last time at the lobster on her plate and then puts her hand in his.

* * *

><p>"Thanks for dinner," she smiles across the dark interior of the car. Marc nods and smiles back. "And for the ride home, you honestly didn't have to."<p>

"It's late, we couldn't let you go home on the bus," he replies sincerely, not taking his hands off of the wheel but angling his body towards hers. She puts her hand on the door handle but doesn't push it open. There's something she wants to ask but doesn't quite know how to say it.

"I like Vero," she says quietly. She hears him chuckle, pictures the way his lips curve up a little at the corners.

"She likes you too," he replies. It feels like he wants to say more but he doesn't. The engine rumbles behind them, making the car vibrate around them and the big invisible pink elephant in the car with them. Taking a deep breath she takes her hand off of the handle and sits back in the seat.

"Why are you being nice to me? I mean...everyone knows you two are besties or whatever," she says quietly, staring out at the dark street because she's afraid to look into the kind eyes of the man sitting in the dark next to her, afraid there will be pity in his gaze. He sits silently for a long time and she begins to think that he isn't going to answer and then he drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

"It's wrong...what he did...what he's doing to you," the young Francophone replies finally. She tries not to smile but can't help it just the slightest selfish grin. "He's still my friend," he adds, his voice a soft lisp. Fern nods and puts her hand back on the door handle. "I think it's brave...what you're doing...keeping it."

"Oh that," she smiles to herself and as it has so often since she took that test at the doctor's office that morning a few weeks back, her hand slides down over her stomach. "I'm not sure I'm not just too chicken to do anything else," she admits with a rueful smile. She looks over at him and he is looking at the spot where her hand rests over the swelling of her stomach.

"Do you...do you feel anything yet?" he stammers.

"Yeah," she replies, feeling that sort flipping over sensation beneath her hand. "You wanna?" His eyes get wide and then he nods. Reaching for his hand she guides it to the spot hers has just vacated. She looks down to see his long fingers spread out over her stomach and then she presses her own over his and guides him to the spot. It only takes a moment or two and then she feels it again, that rolling feeling beneath their joined hands. He grins up at her like he's just made a save in the third period to keep them in the game.

"C'étonnant," he breathes, his gaze filled with child like wonder.

"I completely freaked out the first time it happened," she admits readily as he reluctantly withdraws his hand, "but I'm getting used to it now."

"It's pretty amazing," he agrees but there is nothing in his eyes or in his melancholy smile that tells her that he's truly happy for her and her own smile quickly fades.

"You don't have to be nice to me. I'm really not expecting anything from him or...or any of you," she says, almost under her breath, withdrawing into herself and folding her arms protectively around her middle. The darkness outside seems to creep into the car and with every silent second that goes by she becomes more and more uncomfortable until she's reaching for her phone and considering calling a cab.

"We made a mistake...V and I," he begins haltingly and so quietly that she isn't sure at first if she is even meant to hear it. "We were ... sixteen...too young so she had a termination but...it went so wrong." His voice trails away to a sob she can hear him trying to swallow and when she reaches across the interior of the car for his hand he grasps hers as if she is a life line. She feels the bones in her hand rub together. "If I could take it back," he adds in a hoarse whisper.

"You would, of course you would," she finishes his thought, giving his hand a squeeze. "You really love her," she adds unnecessarily but he gives her a weak but grateful smile all the same.

"We haven't told anyone that," he says as he straightens, lets go of her hand and reaches to put the car in gear. It rumbles to life and lurches forward, tires squealing on the wet pavement.

"Who am I gonna tell?" she replies with a wink that secures her a broader smile from the Pens goal tender and then he puts his foot to the floor and the low slung Italian sports car almost turns sideways, making her squeal with delight.

* * *

><p>He sits on the side of the bed, in the dark, his mind racing, too wide awake to even consider sleeping. He glances back at the pale form behind him, her blonde tresses turned to liquid silver by the moonlight. She is sleeping soundly, her lips parted in a contented smile that will be erased in the morning when she finds him gone without a note, without leaving his number or a promise of another date behind. As willing as she was, he knows in a day or two he will have forgotten her name and a few days after that he will hardly remember this night at all.<p>

Getting to his feet he silently makes his way across the cool wood floor of her room, past the overflowing clothes hamper by the door and out into the hallway. The door to the bathroom is still ajar from when he chased her from the shower to the bed. There wet foot prints are still on the cheap linoleum floor.

Shutting the door he turns on the light and reaches for the nearly flattened tube of toothpaste. Squeezing some out along his index finger he rubs it along his teeth, the sharp taste of mint chasing the dry taste of the red wine from his mouth. As he rubs his finger along his gums he stares at his reflection. He looks tired. There are dark hollows under his eyes and his skin is parchment pale.

"You look like shit buddy," he tells his reflection as he spits into the basin and runs water over his finger and then rinses the bowl. "You _are_ shit," he tells himself mostly under his breath as he reaches under the cold water and splashes it up onto his face. "And your little plan didn't work worth shit either," he adds, lecturing himself as the cold water runs down his face and onto his chest. He doesn't feel better and despite her best attempts, the blonde sleeping in the next room has not managed to erase the thoughts that now swim to the surface of his mind.

Fern.

Jesus, what kind of name is that anyway he asks himself as he leans on the counter and stares at his reflection. He doesn't recognize the man in the mirror. He thinks that man looking back at him is trying hard to be someone that, deep down, he knows he is not and never wants to be. Not really. He is not Max, not Jordy. He thinks that he wants to be but he can't turn off his emotions the way they seem to be able to. If he could she wouldn't still be in his head and he wouldn't have the lead weight in his stomach right now.

"Asshole wanna be," he smirks at his reflection and then runs his fingers through his dark hair before giving his head a shake. "Fucking boy scout," he mutters under his breath and then turns to pick up the pants he'd abandoned a few hours ago and pulls the cheque out of one of the pockets. He contemplates tearing it up but he only turns it over and over in his hands, knowing that he won't. "Try again tomorrow," he sighs and then slides it back into his pocket before tugging his pants on and reaching for his shirt.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"You've never been to a game?" She looks down at the tickets being held out towards her and then at the man seated in the booth offering them and the incredulous expression on his face.

"Well, y'know, I'm not exactly made out of money," she grins, her hand shaking as it reaches out towards the tickets.

"There's always student rush," Pascal Dupuis reminds her. She nods as he presses the tickets into her hand and folds his bigger hands over hers.

"First thing, I'm not a student and also they always do that when I'm on shift," she adds keeping her voice low and aiming a meaningful glance towards the waitresses behind the counter, "and god forbid that I miss a shift but if I did those vultures wouldn't waste a minute taking the rest of my shifts from now until doomsday." She holds the tickets in her hand and runs her fingers over them like she's caressing a delicate piece of china. "So...won't he mind?"

"Probably," he shrugs, "if I told him. These are from me. Well, me and Flower," he adds with a quick smile at his quiet teammate across the table who is wearing an amused smile. "Look, I think you're pretty clear we don't agree with the way that Sid's trying to buy you off to get rid of you. We just want you to know that even if he's not sure what he wants, _we_ consider you family."

"I don't know what to say. I mean, thank you, obviously," she smiles into his kind eyes, "but uh...I don't want anyone to get into trouble or, y'know get on his bad side," she offers sincerely.

"You leave the worrying about Darryl to me," he smiles confidently. The younger man besides him smirks and makes a less than supportive snorting noise.

"What will you do? Spank him if he's bad again?" Kristopher Letang chuckles as he pushes his long, thick dark hair back and out of his equally dark eyes which seems like a fruitless gesture as it only falls back into his face again.

"It's possible," Pascal grins and all of the men at the table laugh. She looks at each of them, ruefully, in turn and a vast emptiness settles into her chest. She longs to be closer to them, to be in on their jokes, to have them consider her one of the gang, not to be the object of their pity. They seem so nice, so unlike _him_.

"So you'll come?" Marc asks, looking angelically innocent even though she is sure by the way Kris suddenly jumps that he is kicking the defenseman under the table.

"It's the first home game of the season, you can scalp them if you want," Kris recommends with an elfin grin that quickly turns into a grimace and the entire table bounces. Biting on her lip to stop from laughing out loud and drawing even more attention to their table she nods.

"I won't sell them and if you're sure that it won't land you in his bad books then I promise I'll go," she says, slipping the tickets into the front pocket of her apron that does little to hide the growing bump beneath, snug and safe along with her tips.

"He'll be up in the box he won't even know you're there," Pascal promises with a smile that fades at the edges as she chews on her bottom lip, "unless you want me to tell him?"

"No," she replies decisively. "So, ready to order?"

* * *

><p>"Stop treating me like I'm one of your kids Dupers," he hisses through clenched teeth. He doesn't want nor does he need reminding of exactly how many times he's promised to see her, to speak with her, to give her the cheque he's been carrying around in his jacket pocket. It's become dog eared and frayed at the edges and he doesn't know how long before it is stale dated and no good to her at all.<p>

"So stop acting like one of my kids and I'll consider it," Pascal replied without looking up from lacing up his skates. This discussion is the last thing he wants today. It's bad enough he isn't going to be out on the ice, where he most wants to be, the last thing he wants right now is to be made to feel worse than he already does.

"I don't know how you can act like it's not happening," Pascal adds, switching feet and tying up the other skate.

"Look she's the one choosing to keep it, not me. I have nothing to do with it," he says firmly, which is easy enough to do considering it's what he's been telling himself, over and over.

"It?" He knows even before he sees Pascal's big eyes roll up to meet his that he's said the wrong thing but he can't and won't take it back. "It's not a dog or a cat it's a kid Crosby and I think it's damn brave of her to choose to keep the baby when she knows it's half jackass like you." The jibe hurts but he does his best not to let it show. Dupuis has been one of his best friends and confidantes on the team, has had his back on more occasions than he cares to count, on and off the ice, so to have Pascal look at him like he's a gigantic disappointment is like having a knife inserted right between his ribs, aiming straight for his heart. "I think the least you could do is show her a little support."

"Her choice," he reiterates with a shrug and starts to turn away only to have a second set of eyes meet his, full of disapproval. "Fuck...don't you think I deserved to be in on the fucking decision here? Does anyone here get that it's not fucking fair that she just got to make that fucking decision and I got no fucking say in the matter?" The room goes silent and most of the guys around him appear to be very focussed on taping their sticks or tying their skates as if they haven't heard any of the conversation. He grinds his teeth together and is about to turn on his heel and leave Duper and his 'father knows best' face when Lloyd and Harry step up to the plate.

"It's his life too," Jordy says, laying his hand on Sid's shoulder in that bros before ho's solidarity sort of way. "If he doesn't want kids he shouldn't have to have them."

"Yeah," TK agrees before Sid can object to the wholesale support that doesn't quite fit, that goes a step farther than he himself would go. "If he told her to get rid of it you'd all be up in arms about that too," the dark haired pugnacious forward adds defiantly. Sidney swallows audibly. If Dupers knew he'd said exactly that...

"It _is_ her body, it should be her choice." Every pair of eyes turns to the quiet man in the corner sitting there with his pads and hockey pants on and nothing else, his frame as fragile as a sparrow. He could object but the look in MAF's eyes suggests strongly that it is better not to.

"I don't know why you picked her for the contest either," Tanger taps his stick against Sidney's shiny dress shoes as he passes, "she's foxy in a nerdy kind of way."

He is on him before he has full though through how futile his actions will be. Not only is Letang far better versed in the art of fighting but he is also in full gear with the protections of his pads and the added height of his skates. This is not a fight Sidney can win but he has already thrown the first punch and cannot take it back now.

He feels his head snapping back when Tanger's fist contacts his own jaw squarely and he remembers how many times he's watched the gritty defenseman pummel an opponent and felt pity for the man on the receiving end of the punch that makes his ears ring and has him seeing stars. He is grateful when Jordy and Dupers jump in and drag his long haired teammate off of him.

"You should think about this," Pascal hisses as they both watch Tanger being forcibly dragged from the spot, while Sidney rubs at his jaw and tests it by opening and closing his mouth, listening for clicks and tasting for blood. "If you detest that girl so much why are you so fucking upset?" He doesn't have an answer for that question. He's asked himself the same thing and come up with no answer more than once himself. "Yeah, well, think on it, d'accord mon ami?" Pascal shakes his head at him and then musses his hair just like he would to one of his own kids and Sid finds himself nodding and smiling up at him, just as if he were.

* * *

><p>A jersey would hide it but a jersey is far out of the price range of a diner waitress she decides as she tucks the price tag back into the neck of the black and gold material and turns away, heading back to the rows of t-shirts and sweatshirts. She runs her hand over what looks like a warm hoodie with the Pens logo on the back and 'Property of' on the front. Her smile is wistful. It doesn't seem so long ago that she had longed to be property of the Captain of the team, the man whose number seems to be on every other jersey that walks by her.<p>

Picking up a plain black t-shirt with a small Pens logo embroidered in gold she unfolds it to find Marc's number on the back. She feels a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she holds it up to the light. The price tag swings from the arm and it catches her eye; fifty per cent off, a price that she can afford.

Pulling a twenty from her wallet, she gets in line behind two other young women, both already wearing jerseys, both jerseys with the number eighty-seven emblazoned across their backs. They are talking animatedly and excitedly. It isn't her intention to listen in on their conversation but their voices seem to carry over the energized crowd around them and it is hard to shut them out.

"I'm sure he'll call," the red head assures her blonde friend, who tosses her long, straight hair over her shoulder and sighs dramatically.

"Oh I know he will," the blonde agrees, her phone in hand, tilted so that anyone can read the number on the screen. The number itself could be anything but the name over it can only be one person. "He said I was the best he ever had," she adds, tossing her long mane over her other shoulder, "and he put the number in my phone himself," she continues with a smile that clearly suggests she believes every word that she is saying, but more importantly, that she wants to be sure that everyone hears her.

Fern looks down at the simple t-shirt draped over her arm. The shine has gone out of the stitching. The butterflies that had been fluttering in her stomach since she'd got to the arena settle all at once and become a heavy weight in her stomach instead.

"Here, this will probably fit you." She presses the t-shirt into the hands of the stunned red head in front of her. "I have to pee."

She strides out of the store and shoves her way across the concourse, muttering apologies as she ducks beneath the arm of one man only to walk directly into the path of another. She barely manages to avoid having beer spilled on her and tosses another apology over her shoulder to a middle aged woman whose popcorn she upends as she dashes towards the bathroom.

She hears the curses behind her when she ignores the line and heads to a stall as the door begins to open. The woman coming out narrows her eyes at her but says nothing as Fern tugs the door out of her hand and brushes past her. She pulls the door shut and locks it before anyone else says anything to her.

Leaning against the door she wipes angrily at the tears that are already spilling down her cheeks. She wants not to care. She tells herself that she doesn't, that it doesn't matter if he sleeps with half the city but even as she does she knows that she is lying to herself and one hand slides protectively over the swelling that seems to be getting bigger every day; the reminder that no matter how hard she tries to deny it she is still holding out hope that he is not really the asshole that he seems to be, that somehow, some way he is the knight in shining armour that she always thought he was.

"Hey, are you gonna use the shitter or what?"

"Yeah, yeah I am," she calls back and reaches for the tissue paper ring to cover the toilet. Lifting her plain black t-shirt up she looks down at the material panel in her maternity jeans and makes a face but just as she is about to pull it down she feels that still new tumbling, bubbly sensation and puts both hands over her stomach, and smiles.

* * *

><p>"There you are. Sorry I'm late, but you were right, I am not gonna make a good nurse."<p>

Fern slides her jacket from the seat beside her to make room for the diminutive brunette who promptly drops into it, slides her book bag under it and then proceeds to shimmy out of her jacket, revealing a Letang jersey beneath.

"Chemistry?" Fern asks, handing her friend the drink she's been keeping for her.

"Fuck yeah," she sighs, pursing her lips around the straw and taking a long sip before sitting back in the seat and aiming her grey green eyes at Fern. "But enough about me. Nice seats girlfriend."

"Right?" Fern brightens visibly and aims a grin towards the empty ice. She reminds herself silently to give Pascal and Marc each a great big hug the next time she sees them. The seats are half a dozen rows up from the bench and a little to the right so that they are just above the glass with an unobstructed view of the ice. They are very good seats indeed.

"So is _he_ around?" her friend asks in a hushed tone, peering at the people in the seats around them through narrowed eyes.

"Sam," Fern gives her friend a playful shove and then shakes her head. "No, I haven't seen him and they said they weren't gonna tell him," she adds. Samantha shrugs her shoulders, sits back and stares up at the boxes.

"He's probably up there, watching you right now. I hope he comes down here. I am so gonna kick his fucking ass." Samantha's threat of violence and obvious loyalty earns her a warm smile from Fern but she shakes her head.

"I think we'd miss the game if you did that," she warns and Samantha's full lips peel back to reveal a perfect row of white teeth.

"Yeah but it'd be fuckin' fun while it lasted." Sam's menacing grin fades at the edges and she tilts her head to the side, her eyes narrowing once again as she shrewdly searches her friend's face. "You've been crying."

"No," Fern turns to face the ice again and slides down into her seat.

"You have. Ferny," Sam's hand reaches for her own and Fern does not withdraw it. "What's up? Did you see him or something?"

"No," she answers quietly, an ironic half smile tugging at one corner of her lip. "Just another girl who slept with him," she adds quietly, her other hand automatically sliding over her stomach. "She was blonde and so fucking pretty," she sighs closing her eyes and letting her shoulders droop.

"Well fuck her, I hope he was even worse for her than he was for you," Sam snickers, giving her friends' hand a squeeze. Before Fern can thank her for her steadfastness or even tell her that she doesn't mind if he was amazing in bed for someone else, one of the equipment managers appears behind the bench and tosses a bucketful of pucks out onto the ice.

A mix of enthusiastic whistles and gleeful squeals fills the arena as the players hit the ice and the crowd stands all at once, Fern and Samantha with them. Sam is still holding her hand when the players in their black and gold begin to race by, the sound of their skate blades cutting into the ice clear as a bell from their seats. The heaviness that had settled into her stomach lifts and the butterflies begin to rise, flapping their wings as if they've been lifted on a warm afternoon breeze.

Fleury looks up as he lumbers by, weighed down by his pads and lifts his stick in salute and then does a not so graceful pirouette. Sam lets out long shrill wolf whistle that makes Fern giggle. Pascal taps the glass and waves and Fern lifts her hand to cover her heart. He smiles and then digs his blades into the ice and speeds across it.

"These are fucking great seats," Sam reiterates and Fern can't quite form the words but nods, tears in her eyes.

* * *

><p>He is not surprised that Mario and the rest of the brass have found the silver lining in his not being in the line up tonight and he is doing his best to smile and shake all of the right hands, laugh at the appropriate jokes and pretend to be slightly offended at the off colour ones. He plays his part perfectly out of years of practice. He is the penultimate ambassador for the game he loves and he only begrudges his position once the game starts.<p>

He is grateful for the large screen TV's that dot the walls around the executive suite but he agrees without reservation with anyone who asks him if it is hard to merely be a spectator. It is, very much so. But watching still makes him feel more a part of the team than listening to product pitches and schmoozing suits.

He sips slowly at the wine he's been offered. If he'd had a choice he'd have more than a couple of beers by now but as it is he is earning one too many sideways glances. His reputation for avoiding all excesses precedes him and makes it difficult sometimes to be in company with people who don't know the real Sid. He slides the wine glass onto the table and picks up a bottle of chilled water instead.

As he twists the plastic cap from the bottle a roar goes up in the arena and every head turns to either look up at one of the big screens or out at the ice itself. He is too far from the best view and so turns to look at the television. He has missed the initial play and even the players' celebration. The camera is now panning the crowd and stops on a pair of young women jumping and clapping. That sight, in and of itself is not at all strange. The Penguins, more so than most teams in the league, has a young and predominantly female fan base. It is one of the young women in particular that catches his eye.

He curses under his breath and while the rest of the box is still transfixed by the goal celebration he slips out the door and heads into the bowels of the arena.


	8. Chapter 8

_For everyone that's been sending encouraging messages and waiting super impatiently for the next installment..._

**Chapter 8**

He paces the empty room, listening to the sounds of the game muted by the closed doors to the dressing room. The seats she is sitting in are not set aside for family, they are not even seats that are given out to prospective clients or charities. They are seats the players have set aside to impress girls. They are seats normally occupied by Jordan's blonde bimbos or TK's red headed party girls. The last time he had given out those tickets himself the girl's picture had been all over the internet before the second period had started. Of course she'd worn his jersey but that had been his fault. He hadn't warned her that it seemed to be common knowledge whose asses sat in those seats.

Whoever had given her those seats knew that she'd be seen. The in arena camera men knew about those seats. The girls who sat in those seats always ended up on the jumbo-tron. Whoever had given her those seats knew that _he_ would see her.

Whoever had given her those tickets was looking for a serious beat down.

The doors swing open and his teammates call enthusiastically to one another, praising one another on a good first period. This is an activity he would normally participate in but not tonight. While he's glad his teammates have managed to put the biscuit in the basket he is hardly in the mood to celebrate.

"Who's idea was it?" he snaps as the doors swings closed behind the last of his teammates. "C'mon, which one of you did it?" It is exceedingly rare for him to raise his voice amongst these men. He does not lead them through fear or intimidation. He does not shout, rant and rave, that is not his style which is likely the reason their smiles disappear all at once and the majority of his teammates fall silent.

"It was me," Flower replies in a tired voice, flipping his helmet back and dragging his jersey over his head.

"And me," Dupers adds as he passes by Sidney without sparing him even as much as a sideways glance.

"Tabernac! If we're falling on our swords then okay, it was me too," Tanger adds from his spot on the bench, his jersey already hanging behind him. Sid hunches his shoulders, as if readying himself for a pasting into the boards. He hasn't counted on the entire French connection being involved. It's easy to be mad at just Pascal, if that was the only member of his team involved. It is another matter entirely to take on three of the most popular men on the team.

"So that's it. You're all on her side?" he asks, the feeling of the knife twisting in his back setting his teeth on edge. He looks to Dupuis, the oldest and most likely ringleader of the group, for an explanation. Pascal smirks.

"Has all this just been a dream? Am I really only in grade four? Quick, Sidney write a note, do you like me yes or no and I'll pass it to the girl for you," he snipes and then returns towards Cookie as if to continue a conversation, shutting Sidney out altogether and ending the conversation, if there was even one to begin with. Sidney opens his mouth to continue to argue the point but a single look from Flower silences him.

A buzz begins to build around him and after an awkward moment or two he realizes that his teammates have recommenced their usual banter, dismissing his presence altogether. His hands clench at his sides but he is unequipped to deal with the slow humiliating burn he feels as he stands alone in the middle of the room.

"Just try and be nice to her mon ami, it's all we are asking." He looks at the hand that has come to rest on his shoulder and then up into the dark eyes Letang. "She's scared to death. I think it's the least that you can do for her, considering." Every cell and fibre in his being struggles to argue but the past couple of years of therapy allows him to breathe through it and not lash out at his friend. "You know, if you stop fighting the idea, you might find out you like the idea of being a father. I know maybe she's not who you might have chosen but maybe, give her a chance, you never know." Just as he has managed to bring his blood pressure down to a simmer, he feels his internal temperature begin to rise.

"You know I want a family, a great _big_ fucking family," he hisses at his friend knowing, without having to have a mirror to see, that every vein is sticking out and that he has begun to sweat under the pressure of not exploding. "Just not like this. Not this way," he adds in a voice that sounds like it belongs to some kind of half man half wolf, more of a warning growl than words.

"Life can surprise you," Dupes says calmly, shrugging his shoulders and smiling. "You know what they say, when life gives you lemons, vous devez faire de la lemonade."

He wants to ask how is friend can be so laissez-faire. He wants to say that it's easy for him to say, the family man who can go home and be with his kids and not have to do appearances, who can turn down charity events to go to a dance recital or a school play. He wants to point out that he is Sidney Crosby and he doesn't have those options but in the end, he nods and walks slowly and silently out of the room.

If he was any other man, if he was any one of his teammates he could put on a jersey and pull on a ball cap and go down and tell her, in no uncertain terms, that it would be best for her to leave but he is the one man in the entire building who cannot do that. He cannot hide under a ball cap. Every person in this stadium has seen him give countless interviews from beneath the brim of his crusty, stained Pens cap. He cannot merely throw a jersey over his suit and tie. He is too recognizable in one of those too and throwing a plain sweatshirt on won't go far to solving that issue.

Not, he realizes as he makes his way slowly back up to the box, that he knows what he will say to her anymore than he did this morning when he did not go to the diner, again.

* * *

><p>"The dressing room?" she glances at Samantha and they share an anticipatory and excited grin. The usher nods and sweeps his hand out for the second time indicating that they should follow him. With a shrug of her shoulders she follows him the stairs and through the crowds towards an elevator tucked away in a corner that only works with a swipe of his identity card.<p>

He says nothing as they descend into the bowels of the arena until they reach a set of double doors emblazoned with the Pens logo and then he merely says 'go inside'.

The room is warm, a sort of moist tropical heat blasting through the doors the moment they open, followed by a fungal stink that makes her cough and gasp. It is much worse than male sweat, worse than the funk in a gym. It is worse than feet and sweat socks and teenage boy B.O. It is the sickly scent of wet mold and decaying body parts. She wonders if this is what an open grave smells like.

"We're going out, not late," Marc calls as he drags his jersey over his head, "will you come?" She wants to say yes, like an eager puppy bounding at the sight of its leash but she sends a quick look towards her friend, knowing that she will not go without her.

"You're friend's invited too," a very tall Jordan calls, appearing around the corner in nothing but a towel. It is a sight to make any woman's knees more than just a little weak. Samantha grips her hand tightly and Fern finds herself grinning from ear to ear, a sensation she hasn't felt for some time.

"But not late right?" she says to Marc who is now sitting on the bench in front of his name plate and helmet shirtless, rubbing a towel through his damp hair. "I have to be at the diner at five," she adds by way of a reminder.

"Don't worry, I hardly ever stay for more than one drink," he tells her with a quick smile. "I will get Cinderella home before she turns into a pumpkin."

"It wasn't Cinderella that turned into a pumpkin, it was her coach, or whatever," Samantha begins to babble and Marc only looks confused and slightly amused before tossing his towel into a growing pile in the middle of the room. Brooks Orpik walks by completely naked. Sam leans heavily against her friend who hides a giggle behind her hand.

"Why don't you wait outside? We'll be out in ten or fifteen minutes," the Pens net minder adds before he reaches for one of the buckles on the back of the enormous pads that seem to dwarf him. She nods and turns to drag her friend out of the room, only to stop in her tracks and have Sam bump into her like a caboose being added to a train when the door opens and he is framed in the bright light of the room and the comparative dimness of the hall outside.

Her knees may have knocked at the sight of Jordan Staal in a towel but the sight of him in his dark pinstriped suit, button up crisp white dress shirt and purple and lilac striped tie is enough to make her panties melt and run down her legs. It isn't the reaction she wants to have but it is the immediate visceral and very primal reaction she experiences despite wishing very hard to feel anything at the sight of him.

"What do I do?" she hisses, feeling Sam squeezing her hand, instinctively knowing without needing to be told what is going on because they are the kind of friends that can read each other's thoughts and finish each other's sentences.

"Keep walking, just walk," Sam whispers back, putting her other hand at the small of Fern's back and guiding her forward.

* * *

><p>She isn't how remembers her to be. He does not remember red highlights in her brown hair. He does not remember the tiny jewels flashing at the top corners of her dark rimmed glasses. He does not remember her lips being so full or her waist being so tiny. She is not the girl he has painted in his memory.<p>

The Pens t-shirt she is wearing fits snugly across breasts he remembers as being smaller although his mind quickly reminds him that there are things like push up bras and other magical devices women can use to cheat his eye. The shirt also fits noticeably tighter across her stomach which is much rounder than he remembers it being last time he saw her, outside the diner. It is that bump, that almost unnatural looking swelling that draws and holds his eye the longest.

That is a child, _his_ child.

The thought sends a shudder down his spine and makes his stomach tighten around the fist of lead that formed the minute he saw her again and has never left. As long and hard as he has tried to deny that this is happening, the evidence before him is too hard to deny, as is the veil of silence that falls over the entire room. He knows without looking that ever pair of eyes has turned and is watching, that every person in this room is wondering what he will do. It feels somewhat like stepping out on the ice during a shoot out. The crowd holds their breath, the opposition goal tender wondering if you will go forehand or backhand, your teammates wondering if you will score. Right now he knows all they are wondering if he is going to flip his lid.

"Hi," he says quietly instead of 'you again' or 'what the hell are you doing here?' both sentiments have crossed his mind but he manages not to give them voice. Her eyes, eyes he could have sworn were brown but now look a little like his own, too light to be really brown but too brown to be green, become very large. It seems his teammates are not the only ones expecting him to behave badly. "I...I uh, have something for you...in the lounge," he adds doing his very best not to clench his teeth or ball his fists as he says it. "Great game guys. Way to keep us in it Flower," he calls to the room before turning and holding the door open for her to follow. She makes no move to follow, at first, until her friend whispers something in her ear and she sort of stumbles after him.

He doesn't realize until he pushes open the door to the player's lounge that her friend is still attached to her but when he looks down at their joined hands and then back up into her wide eyed and apprehensive gaze he is unable to keep from rolling his eyes.

"You want me to stay?" he hears her friend ask as he heads toward his locker. He doesn't hear the answer, if any, that Fern gives but her friend's promise, or is it a threat, is loud and clear. "I'll be right outside if you need anything and I've got mace _and_ pepper spray in my purse."

He retrieves the dog eared, tattered cheque that is slightly worse for being carried in his pocket for weeks from where it has been stashed with his energy bars, wrist and ankle weights in his locker. When he turns to hand it to her she is loitering close to the door as if she expects to need to escape. That sight gives him pause.

"Christ I know you think I'm an ass but I'm not going to hurt you," he grumbles, holding the cheque out towards her.

"I'm supposed to stay away from you or at least that's what your attack dog told me," she informs him as she looks at his outstretched hand and its contents. "And I'm not taking that."

"You should...I mean, I _want_ you to," he corrects himself, hearing Dupes voice in the back of his mind reminding him to be nice. "I'm sure you've got expenses... I should help with that. I mean...you should let me help with that." He is suddenly reminded as her lip curls up at his tone of how his younger sister is always reminding him that he is 'not the boss of her' and how he should _ask_ her to and not _tell_ her to do things. Fern's curled lip turns into a smirk that she quickly tries to hide.

"I thought you said there was no way in hell _this_," she say, curling her hand beneath her swollen belly, "could possibly be yours and now you're offering to pay for my expenses?" Sarcasm drips from her lips and she raises an eyebrow as he scoops a large helping of humble pie for himself.

"Yeah, well...I'm in a position to help so...," he shrugs and lets his voice trail away.

"So now I'm a charity case?" she asks with a bitter edge to her voice as she drops her gaze from his and the almost smile that she'd been wearing disappears as quickly as it appeared. With a growl he shoves his hands in his jacket pockets to hide the fists he makes out of frustration.

"Look I'm trying to do the right thing here and give you the benefit of the doubt. Just take that and let me know if you need anything else, okay?" As he slams his locker shut and twists the lock he tries to breathe through the feeling that it actually bothers him that she dislikes him and that maybe, just maybe, Dupes could be right. Maybe he is just pissed at her because this is not the way he ever imagined this happening. "I'm sorry," he breathes, his back to her, his hand still on his locker door. "I know this isn't easy for you but you have to realize this isn't exactly ideal for me." He waits for her to respond and when she doesn't he turns to see her watching him out of those depthless eyes of hers, eyes glimmering with tears barely held in check. "Oh god, you're not gonna cry again are you?"

It's exactly the wrong thing to say and the moment the words escape his lips he knows it but even as he opens his mouth to apologize, yet again, she turns and rushes out the door. He doesn't follow her. He's not sure he wants to and he certainly doesn't want to go out and play happy families with her and his teammates, not that he could. Not with him being out of the line up. He can't be seen with a glass of Jack in his hands out at a club when he's yet to be declared symptom free. So he lets her go and hopes, when her friend and his calms her down that someone will see that he's doing his best.

* * *

><p>"Thanks," she sighs as his car pulls up outside of her apartment block.<p>

"Hey I hardly ever stay past a drink or so. Not the big partier like Jordy, or your friend," Marc adds with a playful grin. She laughs and rolls her eyes.

"I hope she'll be okay with them," she wonders aloud. The Pens goalie shuts off the ignition and the sudden silence seems comforting.

"She seems like she can handle herself," he laughs and she finds herself nodding in agreement.

"Yeah, you're right, they should probably worry about her," she giggles and then hiccups. "Jeez and I didn't even drink," she laughs and then winces. "Oh...can't do that...now I need to pee," she sighs and holds onto her stomach with one hand and reaches for the door handle with the other.

"So...you had a good time, aside from Sid?" he asks out of the blue. She turns to look back at the Marc who is still holding the steering wheel but his kind eyes are full of worry and concern for her. She smiles widely at him because it is hard to do anything else when she is around him.

"The game was great and you were amazing," she replies earnestly, leaning across the dark space between them and wrapping her arms around him. If he holds her a minute too long she doesn't take any special notice of it.

"Do you want me to walk you to your door?" he asks as he finally withdraws and lets her slide back into the passenger seat.

"Oh I think I can make it, just about," she rolls her eyes and pats her stomach again. "And uh...don't be too hard on him...I probably scared the shit out of him with this," she adds looking down at her stomach. "I've had a lot more time to get used to it." When she looks up at him he is smiling but it isn't the warm friendly even mischievous smile that she is used to. This smile looks forced, disingenuous and it makes her pause.

"I am still sorry he upset you," Marc says very seriously. She gets the impression that the usually quiet young man sitting in the dark with her doesn't anger easily but it is clear in the way his lips thin out and in the way his eyes flash in the darkness that he is angry, and she can imagine that the next time he sees the Pens captain he will definitely have a few words for him.

"Well...I _should_ be getting used to it by now," she shrugs, doing her best to dismiss it. What she does not want is to be the reason that he did not come tonight or that he becomes ostracized from more events like this. As much a she likes the idea of being friends with this man and with the other members of the Pens team, she has no desire to be their Yoko Ono either. "Anyway, thanks again and good night," she says turning to reach for the door handle again.

"Faites de beaux rêves," he calls after her and when she turns to push the door shut his easy grin is back. She blows him a kiss and he feigns catching it and holding it against his chest. She laughs and skips up the walk.


	9. Chapter 9

_Sometimes I read a comment while I'm writing a chapter and it makes me tweak, add or delete something I've written but sometimes I read a comment while I'm writing and the evil inner me giggles, rubs her hands together and makes big changes!_

**Chapter 9**

"What are you doing here?" With a sidelong glance at the other waitress on the counter she slides a pencil from behind her ear, a pad from her apron and greets him with a warm and welcoming smile because she is delighted to see a friendly face amongst the mid day business and college crowd, eager to get their food and get back to work with no time for casual banter and unlikely to leave much of a tip.

"Just heading back from practice, thought I'd stop in and see you," he replies, sliding onto a stool at the counter and reaching to turn a white ceramic cup over. Smirking she turns and reaches for one of the steaming cups of black coffee behind her.

"This shit will stunt your growth you know," she snickers as she pours it into the cup while he reaches for a Splenda and rips it open.

"Think about all that stuff in Gatorade," he shudders dramatically and they both laugh.

"So can I get you anything? Slice of pie, on me?" she asks, nibbling at the end of the pencil. He considers it, eyeing the deserts in the display case and then leans over the counter and motions her to do the same.

"I wanna tell you a secret, the food here's not so good," he whispers in her ear. She laughs but catches herself, covering her mouth with her hand and sending a panicked glance towards the other waitress. "What time do you get off?" he asks, sitting back down and taking a sip of the bitter coffee, making a face and reaching for another package of Splenda. "Maybe I can take you for some real food."

"Actually I am off soon," she smiles as if she has a secret as she reaches beneath the counter and grabs a glass and a rag and begins to polish it. "But I can't eat, at least not yet." He looks up at her, interested and though she fights it, she cannot quite manage to stop her grin from growing or from telling him her plans for the rest of the day.

"I have my twenty week scan this afternoon and with that money he gave me, I'm getting one of those 3-d ones. I'm kind of excited," she admits, her cheeks almost hurting as her smile grows. "I have to drink like a whole bunch of water between then and getting to the clinic though, so that should make the bus ride fun."

"You're going on the bus?" Marc looks sincerely shocked as he puts the cup down but she is unperturbed. "Don't you have anyone to take you, your friend…what was her name…? Jordan told me but I forget," he mumbles. She giggles again as she picks up the next glass.

"Sam was going to, she was but she has this test tomorrow or something and it's not like I need anyone to hold my hand," she shrugs and reaches for another glass. He looks down into his coffee and appears to contemplate it for a long time, long enough that she thinks he is trying to dismiss her and that she should move along but just as she slips the last glass back on its tray beneath the counter he looks up at her with those woeful puppy dog brown eyes of his and a slow smile spread across his thin lips, pulling that soul patch up and making his eyes twinkle.

"I'll go with you." It isn't a question. He doesn't ask to come along. He also doesn't offer as if she needs him to or that she should not consider going alone. He merely states it as a fact that she should accept.

"I couldn't," she breathes, glancing around guiltily as if their conversation might get her or both of them in trouble. "Marc, I couldn't ask you too."

"No problem, I want to," he says, again as if no argument could override his decision which is clearly and irrevocably final and how can she argue with that face she decides, reaching around to untie her apron.

"Then I'll be two minutes," she insists.

"I'll be right here," he promises.

* * *

><p>"I think it's a stupid idea."<p>

Sid heaves a sigh but does not reply immediately. After all, it is not as if he has expected a different answer. His fingers drum nervously on his knee, but his father cannot see that through the computer. Sometimes he hates the impersonal nature of skype and sometimes, like now, it's perfection in its restrictions.

"You have to admit, there isn't a better way to keep an eye on her." It's an argument he knows that Troy will not be able to dispute and just as he's predicted, his father nods, setting his jowls swinging. "I did think about here but that seemed like admitting fault," he adds before his father can give voice to a plan b.

"Good thinking," the older man says, giving his son the kind of smile that he should give him when he wins a game, not for doing something underhanded and devious. But then, this is the sort of thing that his father is good at, controlling other people and getting them to do what he wants. He's had a life time of perfecting his ability to make others dance to his tune and his son knows that he is his father's favorite puppet. "So when does the little slut move in?" Sid bites on the inside of his cheek and breathes through his nose. For the moment he knows that it is best if his father continues to believe that they are entirely on the same page, the same team even though, in his heart, his own view of the situation at hand is less…clear.

"I haven't asked her yet," he admits, keeping his expression carefully neutral and just a little bit hopeful. His father loves nothing better than extinguishing optimism from his son's eyes. "I wanted to run it by you first. Make sure you thought it was a good idea," he adds, stroking his father's enormous ego. The big man falls for it, hook line and sinker and beams across the miles at his son, filling the LED screen with a voracious smile.

"You did right son," he says proudly, sitting back so that the when the barrel of his chest fills with hot air again, he looks like a big bear; a big, meat eating, soul sucking, life devouring bear.

"Thanks dad." He manages, just, to sound contrite and twist his face into what he hopes is the kind of grin that says he is happy his father thinks that he has done a good thing. It is a smile he has been practicing a good deal of his life but knows he has not ever, truly, been able to perfect.

"So you're gonna move her into your place 'til the squirt pops out, keep her sweet and thinking that she's getting all she wants and more and then if it's not yours, we can move her out into the wilderness with a cheque to keep her schtumm and if it is, god forbid, we give her a bigger cheque and fly her to Hawaii or something." It is not surprising to him that his father has thought this through to an end game that has her and the child disappearing from his life for good. Every time he's gotten close to anyone that has been the inevitable consequence. God forbid he should have any distraction from the game, including a friend.

"Yeah, sounds about right," he replies without any need to school his expression. That is what will happen. His father and the Commissioner will make certain of it. All he can do is make her comfortable until that happens, he thinks to himself, and while he is doing that, perhaps he can come to some other kind of terms with her himself.

* * *

><p>"Sorry for the wait, that last couple couldn't decide if they wanted to see the sex or not," the technician in her white lab coat and mint green scrubs apologizes as she appears through the door. Fern blows out a breath she has been holding.<p>

"I feel like I'm gonna burst," she admits as the technician takes her place at the machine beside the screen and types in her password.

"I know. This won't take long. You two ready?" she asks, looking at Marc who nods enthusiastically and squeezes the hand he's been holding while they've waited. "Good, now, this will be cold," the technician warns before she squeezes a tablespoon's worth of blue gel on Fern's swollen abdomen. "Now, before we get started have you two discussed if you'd like to know the sex?"

"What do you think?" Marc asks, ignoring that the woman pushing the wand around on her stomach obviously thinks that he is the father; that they are together. She looks up at him, at the exuberant smile on his face, at how excited he is and shrugs.

"I think so, don't you?" she asks and he nods, bending to press his lips on her brow before turning his full attention to the screen. She can't help but giggle. He is like a little boy about to watch a magic show, all nervous energy and wide eyes.

"Okay, well, let's see," the wand moves, a pressure against her bladder that makes Fern wince and then she forgets altogether how much she needs to pee. "That's the heartbeat," the woman says with the patient smile of a magician who knows she's just done something that will get oohs and aaahs. Fern stares at the screen and squeezes Marc's hand, hard.

"When I had my twelve week scan it was like so small I could hardly pick it out," she says in a reverent hushed tone.

"A lot's happened, biologically speaking, since then," the woman says as she adjusts both the pressure and the direction of the wand and all of the air leaves Fern's lungs at once. "He's looking at you," she says with the same smile that is almost like the cue on the jumbo-tron before a face off. Fern feels like she should clap, like she should whistle and make some noise except that she can't move. She doesn't even breathe as she watches the shape on the screen stretch, then roll over and stick his thumb in his mouth.

"So not unlike his father then," Marc whispers and she thinks that she would laugh except that she cannot make a noise, cannot move. This moment to her is like being in church in the middle of the night when it is just you and your maker and not another thing in the world. If it wasn't for Marc's grip on her hand there would be nothing holding her to the ground at all.

"Looks like he's got all ten fingers and all ten toes," the woman adds before typing something that sets the printer into motion. "Two prints, that's what you paid for, am I right?" she asks as she pulls the first one out and hands it to Marc who stares down at it like it's a winning scratch ticket. Fern just nods, her gaze still riveted to the screen, to her son.

* * *

><p>"Thank you for coming with me," she says, finally tearing her gaze away from the grainy picture in her hand and turning to the young man putting his car in park.<p>

"It was my pleasure," he grins, still as enthusiastic as she can't help but wish the real father was.

"Will you take this to him?" she asks, holding the picture out towards him. Marc looks down at it and up at her and his smile fades.

"Are you sure about that?" he asks, his dark eyes searching hers'. She looks at the picture in his hands and then up at him and nods.

"I think so. I mean…he should have one too don't you think?" Marc looks unsure but she is not. He may not be the man she had hoped him to be but he is the father and though it was better to have Marc with her than no one, there is still a part of her that wishes that the real father had been there to see what she has seen.

"D'accord, I will take it to him. I don't know what he will say," he adds, apologetically and by way of a warning she thinks and nods. She has no expectations that a single printed photograph will change his mind or make him a better man. She merely believes that he has a right to it. "Well, I should get back to Vero," he says softly, maybe a little regretfully. She nods and reaches for the handle on the door. Her feet are not flat on the pavement of the sidewalk before a man is getting out of the car in front of them and walking towards her. He is wearing a camel coloured overcoat and a dark blue and grey pinstriped suit. His tie is a matching blue, very corporate as is the manila envelope in his hand. She looks at the envelope and then at him and then back at Marc who is tugging the keys from the ignition and reaching for the car door.

"Are you Fern Smith?" It feels like déjà vu and she is sure as she looks back up at his cold grey eyes behind the thin silver frames of his glasses, without needing to hear another word that standing before her is yet another lawyer.

"And if she is?" Marc asks, appearing at her side, staring directly at the man just the way he does a streaking forward in a shoot out, narrowed eyes and thinned lips.

"We just have a few things to speak about, if we can go inside," the man replies, firmly but not sternly, his gaze only on Fern as if he does not see the young man at her side.

"What is this about?" Marc asks, stepping in front of Fern, holding his arms protectively out as if he can take on an entire team all on his own.

"Miss, if we can speak in private," the man asks again, an edge to his tone this time.

"Marc, I'm sure it's okay," Fern begins to speak but the Pens net minder shakes his head.

"If this is about what I think it's about, I want to know," he insists. The man looks at Marc for the first time and then over his shoulder at Fern and tilts his head in acquiescence.

"If you insist, but I still think that it is best we do this _inside_?" It is not really a question, but he forms it that way as if to be polite.

"Yes of course," she agrees meekly, digging her keys from her purse, "please follow me."

* * *

><p>"Tu fils de pute putain!"<p>

He does not have time to put up any defense. He does not even see the attack coming until he feels hands locking his arms to his sides and realizes that he is falling. He sees the blazing eyes of the usually mild mannered Pens goalie centimeters from his own and just for a moment he wonders what could possibly have set Flower off. He thinks that he has only seen Marc this angry maybe twice and both times it had to do with being pulled and resulted in several broken sticks. He does not think he has ever seen MAF specifically angry at any one member of the team. Apparently today though, he is.

"What the hell am I supposed to have done?" he asks as he manages, just, to twist enough in Marc's grasp so that his head is not the first thing that hits the floor.

"Tu sais exactement ce que tu fais!" MAF growls from his position astride Sid's chest, his arm pulled back, his fist ready to be released in a blow that Sid knows will hurt, a lot.

"No," he insists, meeting his angry teammate's furious gaze and rolling his head from side to side. "No, I don't."

"I was there when it happened. I saw the whole thing. How could you do that? Es-tu un robot? As-tu pas de sentiments?" He can feel more than see the crowd forming around them and the fact that no one has pulled MAF off of him tells him that he whatever beating the goalie is ready to give him, there isn't one person in this room that is going to stop him from handing it out.

"I'm telling you, I don't know what you're fucking talking about," he repeats as calmly as he can, considering he is actually a little frightened. MAF is one of the jokesters on the team, the even headed one, the one who always has a joke, a quick smile. The person kneeling on his chest is not that person and the one behind this person's eyes does not look like he will stop at one punch.

"You sent another lawyer," Marc snarls at him, "with a protection order, like she is the one in the wrong! Salaud!" Sidney blinks up at his friend. He knows that MAF would not lie, but he can't get his head around what he is saying either.

"I didn't. Honestly, I fucking didn't. I don't know what you're fucking talking about. I didn't send anyone. I…I was going to try and talk to her tomorrow. I just told Troy I'm planning on moving her into my house," he explains rapidly and watches as Marc tries to digest what he is being told.

"Fais-tu?" Marc's dark eyes narrow but the redness fades from his cheeks.

"I'm telling you the truth," Sid pleads, holding his hands out to his sides instead of in front of his face. "I don't want to be a total dick to her. I mean I know I _have_ been but man…I'm trying not to be okay?"

"So who sent him, the lawyer?" Marc asks, his fist still cocked but his grip on the front Sid's t-shirt begins to ease.

"I did."

The voice comes from above and behind him and as hard as he tries, Sid can't quite twist around enough to see who has spoken but from the way that the sea of feet part, he can guess.

"Mario," he breathes, shocked to his core. He feels Marc release, feels the goalie's bony knee lift from the center of his chest, but he still feels a weight there. One weight has only been replaced by another.

"Your father told me about this plan of yours," Mario tells him quietly, coming into view and offering a hand up. Sid stares at the offered hand, unsure of whether he wants to take it or not. "I do not believe it is a wise choice so I sent the one of our legal team. Now, I think you and I should talk."


	10. Chapter 10

_I haven't had access to a computer in daaaays and just to be able to get back to this feels sooo good, So sorry for the delay but here we go_

**Chapter 10**

"Close the door behind you."

He feels like he's walking into the Principal's office. Not that he's had that experience exactly but nothing good can ever come from the words 'we need to talk'. He pulls the door shut and heads for the high backed leather chair, slumping into it, shoulders drooping.

"I spoke with your father," Mario begins in that soft lilting voice that Sidney usually finds comforting but now it just sounds condescending.

"I figured as much," he replies sullenly, picking an invisible piece of lint from his pants.

"This was something I had to do, to protect you from yourself. Sid," the big man pauses and Sid knows that he's waiting for him to look up at him so he purposefully does not. He can already feel the speech coming on and is bracing himself. "This girl…," Mario begins again and Sid's hands curl into fists on his knees.

"Young woman," he interjects, "and the guys like her,".

"They may well like her now but you have to understand, some of these young women are master manipulators. They might seem harmless at first but once they have their claws into you things can change very quickly; hence my concern at your plan to have her move into your house." The tone in the Pens owner's voice makes it clear that the plan is dead and not up for discussion but his protégé is stubborn.

"She didn't even want to take the money. I forced her to," Sid reminds his mentor, focusing his decidedly unhappy gaze on the sky blue eyes staring back at him.

"And she turned down the cheque offered her today, which concerns me. It makes me think she's looking for a bigger pay day further down the line," Mario continues, sitting on the edge of the big desk so that he looms over his prize Centerman.

"And if she's not?" Sidney asks, his tone taking on a threatening edge. Mario raises a single eyebrow as he considers Sid's words. "I mean, it's possible she's not after me or my money or anything like that. I mean, it's _possible_, right?" He can see the surprise register in Mario's eyes and, knowing he's made his point, he goes back to picking at a loose thread on the knee of his pants.

"I suppose that it could be possible but Sidney do you think that is a chance that you can afford to take? If you're wrong, if she turns out to be one of those girls…."

"Then I'll live with the consequences. Looks like that's something I'm starting to live with already anyways," he sighs, dropping the pretence of picking at his clothes, putting both feet on the floor and pushing himself up to his feet. "I appreciate your trying to protect me but…well…I'd appreciate if you don't. Not with this."

"Sid...," Mario begins but he is already half way out the door.

"Thanks for your help but I've got it from here," he says quietly, turning his back on his mentor and pulling the door shut behind him.

* * *

><p>"Je suis désolé," Marc begins as soon as he walks through the door. Sid waves off the apology and instead walks towards his stall, sits down and puts his head in his hands.<p>

"Don't be," he tells his friend quietly. "I'm pretty sure I would have deserved it if I'd done what you thought I'd done. She must think I am the biggest asshole that was ever born." When there is no reply, not even one dripping with sarcasm he laughs and shakes his head. "Well who can blame her with my track record?"

"She's a good person. She doesn't deserve the way you're treating her," Flower tells him and without looking up, Sid nods.

"I get that you think so, Mario thinks...," he begins but before he can continue the sound of the rest of the guys coming off the ice interrupts them.

"Why don't you just try to get to know her?' Flower suggests before turning to greet Tanger, who feints a punch towards the net minder's gut and then laughs as he passes by. Sid listens to his teammates' easy light hearted banter enviously and not only because he misses being out the ice but because he has been cast out of the inner circle. All because of a stupid contest he should never have taken part in and one moment when he let his ego dictate his choices.

"He's right," Pascal agrees as he yanks his jersey over his head. Not that he's worked up a sweat in the pre-game skate but because it's both habit and superstition. He will tape up another stick and he will adjust the laces on his skates. As far as pre game rituals go, Dupers only has a few. Compared to himself, Sid knows, Dupes has hardly any.

"I know he is," he sighs, getting to his feet. He shouldn't be in this room now. He is not playing and in his current mood he doesn't want to watch the game from the box either. He does not want to sign autographs and pretend to be happy to meet anyone.

"You could try talking to her. She's a sweet girl," Pascal adds as he bends to untie his skate, loosening each lace with his thick, calloused fingers.

"If I was her, I wouldn't talk to me," he mumbles, watching his teammate's fingers work quickly and deftly just like they do out on the ice.

"Lucky you're not her," Pascal replies in a monotone that makes it clear that Sid still has a ways to go to make it back in his older teammate's good graces. "You're going to have to talk to her some time," the veteran forward adds dryly, "may as well be now. And Darryl," he adds as Sidney gets slowly to his feet, "be nice to her. Like it or not, she is the mother of your child."

A sullen retort is on the tip of his tongue but Sid wisely swallows it and merely nods mutely before turning to go.

"Good luck guys. Go get him," he calls out and then slips out the double doors while TK and Jordy lead a chorus of war whoops.

He is two steps into the hallway when he hears his name and turns around to see Marc, in full pads, waddling after him.

"She wanted you to have this." They both look down at the grainy black and white photograph in the net minder's hand. He knows there are people in the hallway and he can still hear the boisterous chatter of his teammates just on the other side of the double doors but for what seems like an interminable moment all of that disappears and there is only the light coloured shape against the black background. "That's your son," Flower adds tersely, "think about that when you see her."

* * *

><p>"Hot chocolate and uh...egg white scramble, dry wheat toast and do you have any turkey bacon?"<p>

She scribbles the unusual requests on the small pad of paper in her hand before even looking up at the stranger who requests them. When she does the pen she is holding clatters to the floor and the fake smile she wears for paying customers disappears completely.

"What are _you_ doing here?" she hisses, her eyes narrowing, her lips thinning. Her hair is pulled back again into that severe pony tail but today she is not wearing those dark rimmed glasses. He wonders, as he looks into her eyes if she is wearing contacts.

"To explain," he begins, reaching for the hand that she places flat on the counter as she bends to retrieve the fallen pen. She looks down at his hand and back up at his face and he removes the offending appendage immediately.

"I'm not sure you can," she begins and he does his best to bite back the smile that suddenly tugs at the corners of his mouth, the smile that tries its best to appear every time she does something unexpected, something ballsy, like now, as she crosser her arms and tries to look at him like he's something that just crawled out of a nearby gutter. The way her mouth puckers and her nose wrinkles doesn't suit her and does all at the same time and that makes it very hard not to smile. He reminds himself that he deserves her disdain and lets her have a moment, a long moment where she looks down her nose at him and he takes it and does his best to look sorry and contrite.

"You're right," he says quietly, his shoulders hunching as he reaches up to pull his ball cap lower over his eyes. People are looking, probably regulars, thinking that they've never seen the mousy little waitress do anything but smile and flirt. He doesn't know that girl, but he's seen her through the window. He guesses the girl that is still staring him down now is a stranger to them. He is beginning to wish that she was to him as well and that the smiling girl who takes everyone else's orders in the diner would come back. "Look I really didn't send that guy today, honest, hand on heart." She rolls her eyes at him, an act of disbelief that he can't blame her for. Like MAF, she has no reason to believe that he wasn't in on it so he reaches for the only fact that he believes will change her mind. "I admit I was surprised to hear you tore up the order."

Now it is her turn to try and not smile, though the twinkle that immediately appears in her eyes is not so quickly quashed. She is also proud of what Marc articulated as a sudden and furious ripping of the papers the man was trying to force her to sign. He himself cannot fail to smile when he imagines it.

"Maybe I should get an order against you," she hisses, regaining her composure, or at least her sneer but the twinkle has not left her eyes. He doesn't blame her. It must have felt as good as rubbing Ovechkin's face into the boards feels to him.

"Maybe, but I'm glad you haven't," he tells her and realizes that he means it. Her eyes darken and she searches his gaze with a wary one of her own. Reaching into his pocket, he withdraws the photo and places it on the counter between them. "Otherwise how could I have come to thank you for this?"

* * *

><p>She tries not to but the tears fill her eyes regardless as she looks down at the tiny newly formed face in the picture he has placed on the counter between them. Her own hand slips into the front pocket of the apron she's wearing and she touches her own copy of the picture as if it's a holy talisman.<p>

"Thank me?" she brushes her tears away quickly and becomes engrossed in the spacing of the salt and pepper shakers in front of her. "You definitely haven't been very thankful for anything _I__'__ve_ done." She can't look at him. She's barely managing to hold it together as it is. She believes that no matter how hard she tries to keep her anger on a slow burn, he will, somehow, manage to pour water over it with one look into his caramel coloured eyes.

"You're right," he replies, picking up the picture in both of his hands and when she glances at him the tenderness in his gaze makes her stomach flip and she stuffs both of her hands in the front pocket of her apron to stop herself from reaching out to run her fingers along the soft lines of his lips. For a man, he is very, very pretty. "I'm not saying I'm used to this yet but...I'm trying," he tells her softly, turning his gaze up to meet hers and she does not look away fast enough to avoid his gaze locking with hers. Her heart gives a double thud in her chest as if he's just reached up through her ribs and squeezing it in his massive hands. "What time do you get off?"

The question comes out of the blue and literally rocks her back on her heels. Her hand freezes above the ketchup bottle and she blinks at him, doing her best impression of a doe frozen in the beams of the headlights of an oncoming eighteen wheeler.

"The right answer is yes," an older woman with blue rinse curls and bright pink lipstick insists with a smile as she sips at her coffee. "The answer is always yes to a young man with shoulders _that_ wide." Fern feels her entire face heat up and though she tells herself not to, her gaze immediately falls on the wide shelf of his shoulders and sense memories make her fingers twitch.

"It's not a date, or anything," he quickly adds with a furtive glance at the woman beside him with her battered romance novel and her bottomless cup of coffee. "I just thought...if we're gonna do this, y'know," he says pitching his voice low so that she as to lean forward to hear him, "be parents then we should probably talk about...uh...things. We could go somewhere, maybe catch the third period?"

It's not a romantic proposal or even a simple but flattering request for her phone number but Fern's heart flutters like a caged bird all the same, despite her vehement wish that it not do so.

"I'm off in a half hour," she replies calmly, digging her nails into the palms of her hands. "You want that order before we go?"


	11. Chapter 11

_I know it's short, too short, but this chapter has been giving me nightmares. It's important but not interesting so just blaze through it!_

Chapter 11

It is without a doubt an unusual place for a date or, in this case, an 'un-date'. She is almost certain that he may have picked it because it is a public place, but as she casts a furtive glance in the direction of the hovering salesman, she isn't sure that the choice of a large electronics store is a very wise choice. The young, eager looking salesman looms nearby but every time he comes too close Sid shoots him a dark look and he backs off. Every big screen in the place is tuned to the game and Sid is watching every pass and every shot intently. Fern sits quietly beside him on the black leather loveseat that she is quite certain is meant to be sat on by customer for a few minutes while they decide on a purchase.

But he _is_ Sidney Crosby, she reminds herself as she cradles her stomach and glances nervously at the handsome young man with the ball cap pulled down over his eyes and he _is_ the crown prince of this city which is what is buying them the space and a very small amount of privacy. Not that they've needed it so far. He has hardly spoken three words since meeting her outside the diner.

She does not know how to begin this conversation. That class in high school where she shared the responsibility for a sack of flour has not prepared her for discussing sharing an _actual_ child and nothing in her life prepared her for having any kind of discussion with _him_.

"So what made you decide to keep it?" he asks suddenly. She has rehearsed the answer to this question a hundred times in her mind, has had to explain it to her friends, her family but now that _he_ is asking the answer does not seem as clear.

"If you think it's because it's yours...," she begins and he immediately shakes his head.

"Don't get me wrong, I _did_," he agrees without taking his eyes from the screen, even wincing as one of his teammates blocks a shot. "But now I think there's probably more to it than that." She wants to thank him for giving her some credit but she doesn't. She nods and stares down at her the bump under her favourite dark purple sweater, wondering about the boy growing inside of her, who he'll be, what he'll grow up to be.

"I don't know if you've noticed but uh...I'm not exactly a catch so who knows when I might have this chance again," she begins. She doesn't look over at him. She doesn't want to see him nod or even smirk. She is still unsure of why she was chosen that night and has long since decided that it's not worth pondering too hard.

"You're not that bad," he mutters and she allows herself a moment's exultation. After all a 'not bad' from him feels like high praise. After all, she's seen the women he's left the bar with. "Aren't you a bit young to worry about something like that?" he adds, finally sitting back though his gaze never leaves the screens in front of them.

"Maybe," she shrugs. Jordan nearly stuffs himself and the Dallas Stars into the net. Sid shakes his head.

"What do your folks think?" he asks, finally taking his eyes off the screen long enough to look at her. His gaze slides to her stomach before he looks up into her eyes.

"They're worried," she admits, thinking of the disappointment on her mother's face when she told them. "They don't know about _you_," she adds, biting down on her bottom lip as she tries to stifle a grin, "not that my father hasn't asked a _few_ times," she adds, the image of a particular vein standing out in sharp relief on her father's forehead as she refused to divulge the name of her child's father.

"So how come you haven't...y'know, moved in with them or something?" he asks, his hands clasped between his knees, his legs jiggling up and down anxiously. She finds it hard to believe that he, this man who seems to have the world at his feet, could be nervous around her or nervous at all.

"They live way out in the 'burbs...I work here," she shrugs. "It would be a kind of shit commute, especially by bus," she continues, thinking about her parents' two bedroom bungalow on a dead end street with the doilies on the side tables in the living room, the kitchen cupboards that need to be updated and the lawn that is always a week past needing to be mowed. "I could...I mean I might, later...I mean, I would probably need to for at least a while," she sighs, thinking about meeting her father in the hallway in his droopy boxers as she gets up for a midnight feed. It isn't something she is looking forward to but she is resigned to it.

"So...I'm just trying to get my head around this," he coughs and then turns towards her, finally fully capturing her gaze with his very serious one. She has seen that look, a hundred times on the television and his 'all business' gaze has the very effect she's always thought it would. Her palms sweat so that she has to wipe them on her jeans and her stomach clenches. "If you were so sure...if you're one hundred per cent sure it's mine then why didn't you just come to me?"

* * *

><p>He has been around women who are looking for a brush with fame and he has been around women who are strictly in it for the life and the toys that the money he makes can guy them. He is almost certain that she is neither one of those kinds of women and yet as he watches her narrow her eyes at him he can't help but hear Mario's words playing on a never ending loop in the back of his mind; '<em>they<em>_might__seem__harmless__at__first__but__once__they__have__their__claws__into__you__things__can__change__very__quickly__'_.

"Well you're _you_, for one thing," she whispers, sending a quick glance towards the salesmen who is inching closer again. "Besides," she adds, turning her face from his and carefully arranging her features so that her expression appears blank, "you weren't very...nice." He tries not to but is unable to stop himself from laughing when she reminds him of just what an ass he was that night.

"Yeah, I guess I should apologize for that. I was a little drunk," he chuckles but where he expects a smile he is only met with a hard, cold look. "I guess I was a bit of a jerk," he admits and earns a half a smile but also a raised eyebrow. "Okay fine, that probably wasn't my finest hour," he adds with a rueful smile. She glances away quickly and he is suddenly unsure how to proceed.

He isn't used to apologizing and bringing that night up has shifted the developing amity between them. Her body language has changed utterly from almost relaxed to tense and defensive and he shifts his focus back to the screens in front of him and goes back to gnawing anxiously on his bottom lip knowing that the next question he has to ask is not going to much to ease the tension at all.

"So...if we hadn't shown up that day...was I _ever_ going to know?" A quick glance towards her and he can see the answer written in the tension of her jaw line and the way she suddenly hunches her shoulders forward as if she's trying to hide within herself.

"It's not like I could just walk up to you on the street and tell you," she snaps defensively and he silently concedes the point by nodding when she shoots him a hard look. "I thought...I mean, maybe after I was thinking I might send you a letter or something."

"A letter...I bet that would have ended up in Mario's hands. I can just imagine how that would have gone down," he nearly laughs at the thought but with a sigh decided that he is better off now than he would have been had a mysterious letter delivered the news.

"See?" she hisses, glaring at him from where she is huddled in the corner of the big dark leather sofa. "You make it sound like _I__'__m_ the one that's done something wrong," she adds, crossing her arms and staring straight ahead with a decidedly unhappy look on her face.

"No, I mean...that's not what I meant by it," he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb in exasperation. "Why is it everything I try to..? Look, it was just a question. I just wanted to know if you're planning on shutting me out of his life before I offer to let you have my house."

"_Your_ house?" she whispers, turning to stare at him, wide eyed and very obviously disbelieving.

"I don't actually live there yet, but it's mine," he explains quickly, adding, "I've been doing some renos but I don't really like the idea of living alone so..."

"You still live with Mario?" she asks, looking as if she might laugh at his answer. Sighing, he nods. It is far from the first time he has been made fun of for remaining as his boss's ward despite the fact that he is young and wealthy enough to live like a king. "But you have your own house," she continues, not bothering to hide her amusement.

"So far I've only used it for when family comes to town," he shrugs. "We can go look at it if you want. If you like it...I mean, maybe if you think it's a good idea but if you don't...," he continues, unsure still if his idea is really a good one or if he's pushing too hard.

"Wait...you're offering for me to stay at your house? Cuz you were basically calling me a liar not so long ago," she points out, her bemused smile fading as the reticence he's more used to seeing in her eyes takes over.

"Yeah, well...like I said, I'm trying not to be such an ass," he points out again. She nods and the corner of her mouth twitches until she is almost smiling again.

"Okay."

"Okay?" he asks, realizing as he does that he feels both relieved and just a little euphoric as she nods. "Okay, let's go," he agrees, getting to his feet and holding his hand out to help her up. She looks at his hand and then up at him and she still looks like one of those strays behind bars at the SPCA, the ones you're not sure if they want to bite your hand or be petted by it. He considers withdrawing his hand when her fingers softly caress his palm and a shock runs up his arm as his fingers close around her hand.


	12. Chapter 12

_Sometimes I know where I want to go but not how to get there. I wish there was gps for writing, wouldn't that be awesome? Well it took a couple of tries but I hope you like this chapter_

Chapter 12

He can be excused for feeling like a first time home seller, nervously watching her run her fingertip along the top of the chair rail in the newly renovated and still empty dining room. He has followed her around the house, in and out of all of the empty and mostly dark rooms and she has yet to utter a single sound. None bad, but none good either.

"It's probably not your taste. I don't even know if it's mine really but I picked out pictures from magazines and approved paint chips and..." She holds up a solitary finger and the rest of his words, mostly gibberish to fill up the silence, evaporate.

"It's nice, it's fine," she says quietly as they walk into the kitchen, a room that has made Mario's wife sigh and his own mother hug him tearfully. He knows it looks like something out of Better Homes and Gardens but she still is yet to say a word.

"That's a gas range," he points out as she stops to run her fingers over each raised burner, "and a convection oven which I'm told is good for baking," he adds. She nods, once, as if only to indicate that she has heard and understood his words, which only serves to signify that he has yet to fall into Swahili through sheer nervousness. "The freezer's on the bottom," he mutters as she opens the empty but humming side by side stainless steel fridge, "and the microwave and toaster oven match," he points out, remembering that Nathalie had told him it was important that they do. "There's even a kick plate, at the island and one over by the sink that has this vacuum thing attached and sucks up crumbs," he adds, demonstrating with the press of his own toe. She watches, nods and then turns to open a cupboard, an empty cupboard. "If you hate it...," he begins, unsure of how he will end that sentence. Will he renovate for her? Bring in an interior design consultant with more paint chips, more fabric swatches? He closes his eyes and silently reminds himself that he should not care if she likes it or not. It's a gift and a temporary one at that. She should just be grateful.

Her silence; however, appears to say otherwise.

"So...why do you _not_ live here exactly?" she asks, her back still to him as she walks into the adjoining living room, running her fingertips along the back of the oversize saddle leather couch. "I mean apart from the fact that it's obviously meant to be a family home and yours isn't here all the time?"

"That's just it," he agrees, reaching to turn on the light, flooding the room with a soft golden glow. Turning he finds her watching him and the sentiment in her eyes makes him pause. After all he's done, all he's put her through, he still catches her looking at him as if she can't believe that he is real and all at once he feels unworthy of her adulation or anyone else's. "I want a family, a _big_ family."

"Your very own hockey team huh?" she smirks and he sighs at hearing the familiar refrain.

"You know that reality show with the nineteen kids and counting?" he teases, just to watch her eyes get wide again and then laughs. "I don't know about that but a few, four or five maybe and yeah I guess that when I saw this house I thought it looked like the kind of house I wanted my family to live in." She looks thoughtfully around the room, like she's imagining it filled with laughter and children and the half smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she does makes his hands itch and his mouth get dry because he can picture it too and in the middle of all of it, he can see _her_.

"It must be because you were an only child for so long," she says suddenly, that Mona Lisa smile turning into a smirk, "the wanting a bunch of kids thing." He nods because he knows it to be true even as he realizes that the she's teasing him, like they're friends, and it makes him smile.

"I always wanted some brothers to play with," he admits, thinking about the big back yard and the pool that will now need a security fence and he adds that to the running total in his head labelled 'baby proofing costs'.

"Yeah for your pre-breakfast shinny game," she says, finishing his thought. Normally he'd get the heebie-jeebies when a girl knows those kinds of facts about him, even though he realizes that they can be picked up from just about any magazine or off of any internet site but strangely, right in this moment, he finds it comforting that she knows those little things, that they are facts between them that are simply understood and need no explanation. "Is there a basement?" she asks, very suddenly, her eyes alight.

"Yeah," he smiles broadly, knowing exactly what she is thinking, "wanna see?"

* * *

><p>The infamous dryer is not there but a close facsimile, only slightly dented, sits open against the far concrete wall with about eight feet of bare concrete in front of it. A number of sticks and an ice cream bucket full of pucks stand nearby as if waiting to be invited to play. It's impossible not to smile at the set up and Fern doesn't even try to hide her grin.<p>

"I know, lame right?" he sighs, hanging his head as if he's expecting a rebuke. She offers none.

"No, actually...it's kind of perfect," she gushes and then rolls her eyes at her own reaction. "Sorry, _that_ was lame," she apologizes, wrinkling her nose and ducking her head to hide the blazing heat in her cheeks. She wonders, as she tries to find something in the room to look at besides his high cheekbones and full, soft lips, how it is that she cannot remember that she's supposed to hate him when he aims that boyish grin of his at her and his hazel eyes crinkle appealingly at the corners. "So, is it really good to practice that way? Shooting pucks into that thing?" she asks, trying to keep him talking so that he won't keep looking at her in that way that makes her want to touch him, to be near to him.

"It's good for the aim, y'know, top shelf," he grins and she can't help but imagine the goalie's water bottle popping up into the air and the exuberant celebration that would follow with his arms thrown in the air and his boyish grin shining. She's imagined it a hundred times and then some, that moment when he would turn that boyish grin towards her in the stands instead of at his teammates and how they would share a moment, a moment in which they would just know it was all about them. It takes her a moment now to dismiss the all too lucid and fantastical image from her mind and a moment longer than that for her breathing to slow so that she can speak without her voice quaking.

"I wouldn't think you'd have to practice anymore," she says quietly as she watches him pick out a stick from the rack along the wall, testing its weight in his hands before he effortlessly plucks a puck from the bucket with the blade of the stick and then, with a twist of his wrist, sends it straight into the dryer with a loud 'clank' that echoes around them.

"Always have to keep your skills sharp," he replies, plucking another puck and dropping it in front of his feet, "especially now." He frowns and she knows that not all of the suddenly focussed expression on his face is about locking in on the target in front of him.

"So all of that stuff about loving it...that's really not all bull is it?" she asks as he raises his stick up and behind him, ready to aim a slapper at the innocent dryer. His stick pauses in mid air and his expression alters from grim determination to the kind of darkly brooding sort of smile Edward Cullen wishes he could master.

"No all the time anyway," he replies and launches the puck so hard against the dryer that it rocks backward. The puck drops to the concrete floor leaving a dark dent just above the gaping mouth of the appliance. He curses, shakes his head and then laughs. "See, I'm out of practice." She watches his fingers curl around the shaft of the stick as he plucks another puck from the bucket and begins to bounce it on the blade. Fern rubs at her wrist, remembering how it felt so small in his hand, how he had controlled her as easily as he controls the vulcanized rubber that seems to be bouncing in time to the rapid beating her heart. "So you've had a chance to look around, what do you think?" It takes a certain amount of will power for her to tear her gaze from his bulging biceps and a slight shake of her head to shelve the visions in her brain of him moving over her, all of his muscles rippling and flexing before she can reply.

"I think...I think that it's too nice for me. I think it's a really amazing offer but this place is way too big for just me. I mean, you don't want to live here alone, why would you think I would?" The puck lies flat on the blade of his stick and he stares intently at it for a moment and she almost believes he will levitate it, because he is Sidney Crosby and it wouldn't surprise her if he has magical powers but instead he suddenly flips the stick backwards and without looking behind him nets a hole in one from his backhand. It's a feat she can't help but grin and giggle at.

"And if I moved in?" he asks. She stops mid giggle, claps her hand over her mouth and stares at him in utter disbelief. "I mean...wouldn't that be the best way we could get to know one another?" he asks in a tone that begs for agreement and that makes it abundantly clear that it is an idea that has just popped into his head and he does not want her to laugh at him. His gaze holds hers' for a long moment, willing her not to. As if she could, except perhaps to nervously do so. "It's not _that_ crazy an idea, right?'

"It's pretty crazy," she gasps, trying to catch her breath as if she's just run up a flight of stairs or been hit in the solar plexus with a two by four.

"Well so's having a kid with someone you don't know, right?" he suggests, his tone lighter but still with that edge of hysteria in it. She nods and surreptitiously pinches her upper arm because this cannot be happening. Sidney Crosby cannot be asking her to move in with him. "There's uh...there's lots of rooms and with practice and games and your work we'll probably hardly see each other and whatever but...that way I don't have to hang out at that diner and you don't have to come to the arena..."

"Wait...you don't want me at the arena?" she asks quietly, the snag suddenly becoming clear. "Are you like...forbidding me from the arena or from seeing your teammates?"

* * *

><p>There it is again, he thinks as her gaze becomes suddenly hard and mistrust leaks into her dark eyes; the spark of defiance, the evidence of a backbone that transforms the slightly mousy girl in front of him into the kind of woman that he might actually want to be with. When her eyes flash a warning that tells him he had better answer carefully he has to fight the urge to smile.<p>

"I just think it would be simpler if this was just about us and other people didn't get involved," he replies cautiously. She purses her lips and then looks away, but not before he sees the look of distress in her face.

"Marc's my friend," she counters almost inaudibly.

"Yeah well, we can all be friends but stuff like this," he says, pulling the now folded picture from his jeans pocket, "should come from you not him." It makes perfect sense to him but the minute he says it her hands curl into fists at her sides and her head snaps up and the fury in her gaze is murderous.

"You know what would have been better? If _you'd_ been there instead of him," she snaps and every single solitary ounce of hero worship is erased from her gaze. "Where were you? Huh? What were you doing?"

"Me? I was talking to my dad about moving you in here!" he cries defensively, "and I didn't even _know_ about it." He adds, feeling stung by the accusation that there was something more important than that moment. He doesn't realize it until that moment, doesn't recognize the sting of jealousy he feels at having been robbed of the moment of hearing his son's heart beat for the first time. MAF heard it. It should have been him.

"You wouldn't have gone anyway," she sighs, wincing and clutching at her belly.

"I...I might have. I don't know, and that's not really fair," he argues, but he is watching her hand travel over her stomach with concern and a sense of rising panic. "Are you okay? Is everything alright?Do you need to go to the hospital?"

"No," she wheezes, backtracking towards a plush overstuffed couch and choosing the chaise to sink onto. "He just gave me a boot...just hurt for a minute," she explains breathlessly, rubbing her expanding stomach in slow, soothing circles. He stares down at her, his hands opening and closing uselessly at his sides as his gaze focuses on where her hand is rubbing. "Do you wanna feel it?" she asks, her softer tone making it clear that she is momentarily setting aside the animosity that has reared its head again between them.

"C...can I?" he asks, looking first at her belly and then up into her eyes, feeling a sort of childish wonder, his hands tingling as if he's about to open the gift on Christmas morning, the one he's been waiting and hoping for.

"Well he _is_ yours too," she replies softly, letting her hand slide away so that his can take its' place. His hand is so much bigger than hers' and covers so much more of her stomach and he is very careful as his hand barely presses into her skin at all. "No, here," she whispers, readjusting his hand so that it is more on the side of her stomach. His gaze meets hers', a question in their green gold depths. "Just a minute, you'll see," see smiles and no sooner has she said it then he feels a roundhouse kick beneath the palm of his hand that makes her gasp for breath.

"Oh my god," he breathes, staring down at where his hand is resting just over the spot their son has tried to kick his way out of, "he's so strong."

"You should feel it from my side," she chuckles as he continues to stare, dumbstruck, at where his hand lies over the curve of her stomach.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, raising his gaze to meet hers', letting his legitimate concern for her fill his eyes.

"Sometimes," she replies with a shrug. "Mostly it's kind of neat."

In that moment she has that look, the look that universally says 'mother' on her face. It is sweetness and tenderness and loving and it makes his heart ache. It also makes something else ache, something lower in his gut that reacts purely on more primal and more basic instincts and he hears it in his mind like the growl of a lion and it says 'mine'.

He doesn't think, does not process the thought that enters his head at that moment. He just moves, quick and sure the way he does out on the ice when he sees a play forming. He cups her face in his hands and presses his mouth over hers' and kisses her like he's marking her, like he is branding her his.

* * *

><p>It happens before she can consider her actions and she is as surprised as he is when he recoils from the slap that leaves a livid red welt on his cheek and her hand stinging from the contact.<p>

"What did you do that for?" he hisses between clenched teeth and there is just a tiny part of her that is impressed that she can inflect pain on a man who is regularly run into by mountain sized opposing players with linebacker sized pads and sticks that off the ice would be considered lethal weapons.

"You don't even _like_ me!" she counters, her gaze still riveted to the imprint of her hand on his cheek. He stares back at her, his mouth open as if he would argue, but knows that he cannot and some part of her, something deep in her chest, shatters when he doesn't. "I think I should go," she mutters, straining to get to her feet, a task that has become increasingly difficult in the last couple of weeks. She wants to but does not object when his hand grasps hers and his arm settles around her waist supporting her.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, withdrawing his support as soon as she is on her feet. "I guess I just thought...I thought if we're doing this...," his voice trails away and he shrugs as if he doesn't know what it is that he wanted to say.

"I don't want you to patronize me," she tells him, her voice half caught in her throat as if her body is trying to stop her from speaking the words aloud. How can she be telling him, the handsome prince of her dreams that she does not want to be kissed?

"I'm not," he replies immediately and then shrugs again. "At least I don't think that I was," he adds in a tone that makes it clear that he does not know for certain.

"Well...I don't think all this is such a good idea then, do you?" she asks quietly, glancing back at the now dented dryer with a longing look. With all of her being she wants to watch their son here with him learning to shoot at that dryer. But that hopeful thought, like all of her dreams about him, seem to be far from coming true.

"That won't happen again, I can promise you that," he says gruffly, shoving his hands deep in his jean pockets. "We'll be...uh, just roommates that's all." She thinks that her answer should still be no but the gourmet kitchen upstairs calls to her.

"I don't know," she mumbles, the rational part of her brain reminding her about his unpredictable Jekyll and Hyde personality.

"At least we should try it and uh...you can always slap me again if I get out of line," he offers with half a smile; half a smile that transforms his face from sullen to heartbreakingly handsome. "That's a pretty good right you have by the way," he adds, his eyes creasing at the corners.

"Okay," she whispers, her heart still aching for his touch even as she tells herself that it can't be that way between them and dreams don't come true. "A month and we'll see how it goes."

"Deal," he smiles and her heart breaks just a little more.


	13. Chapter 13

_Hope you all had some good down time with friends and family & that Santa was good to you._

**Chapter 13**

"This is a really fucking stupid idea." Sidney shushes his teammate and glares at him ominously before glancing over his shoulder to see if she's heard. From where she's standing chatting happily in the kitchen with Vero he is guessing that she has not but he gives Jordan a shove nonetheless. "Well it is," Jordy continues as they head down the hall with another box of his things to the room that is down the hall from the one that she has chosen for herself. Despite his protests she did not take the master, so he has.

"She's almost seven months pregnant, it's not like I'm going to want to jump her," he mutters, putting the box he is carrying down beside the bed. He has not told anyone about the kiss and he hopes that she has kept that piece of information to herself. He feels strange about it and tries not to think about it too often.

"Obviously, gross," TK makes a face and then he and Jordan both start making wretching noises and sticking their fingers down their throats until Sid picks up a pillow and tosses it in their direction.

"I mean, she's gonna cramp your style man," Jordy continues, wiping at the tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. Sidney makes a mental note for next years' Halloween party, the Batabi brothers.

"He'd have to have a girl to bring home first," the soft lisp of Marc's voice and his hand on his shoulder have a soothing quality that brings a smile to Sid's face. He turns and aims that smile at his friend but MAF quickly looks away.

"I have some numbers you could borrow," TK says, immediately digging in his pockets and producing a number of ragged pieces of napkin and torn pieces of paper.

"Dontchu just get them to put them in your phone?" Jordan asks, diving for some of the crumpled pieces that have fallen to the floor.

"I like collecting them," TK grins holding up two fistfuls of numbers like they're the Rocket Richard trophy.

"I bet you wack off on them to," Jordy smirks just before TK lets go off his prized possessions and tackles the tall blonde forward onto the bed.

"I've got a ten that says TK pins him," Sid chuckles, turning to see if MAF agrees only to find the club's goalie gone.

* * *

><p>"Oh." It's the only sound she can make upon finding him sitting in the near darkness in nothing more than a pair of black form fitting boxer briefs. His skin is moonlight pale and there seems to miles of it. She pulls her black satin robe closer around her. Not that it helps. This robe was not meant to hide the swollen belly of nearly seven months pregnant woman. Still, it is all she has to hide behind and that is what she wants to do as her gaze travels across the distance between his massive shoulders.<p>

"Can't sleep either?" he asks, reaching to push the barstool next to him at the breakfast bar back so that she can easily slide onto it.

"Can't seem to get comfortable, new bed," she explains. He nods and produces a second spoon as if he'd anticipated her arrival. There is a pint of Ben & Jerry's in front of him. She raises an eyebrow. He shrugs.

"Feeling sorry for myself." As much as he'd wanted them to, his teammates had not been able to stay and christen the house. They are off on a road trip; another one, without him. She picks up the pint and examines it closely, peering in the near dark to read the ingredients.

"Just checking it's not soy or something," she grins before scooping some of the chocolate and marshmallow goodness into her mouth. They eat, side by side, in companionable silence for a while, each savouring the calorie laden milky creaminess as well as the silence of the house around them. Or at least she enjoys the silence. She feels certain that he'd have liked them to stay as a form of prophylactic against having to spend time alone, with her.

"Are you scared?" he asks out of the blue, breaking the silence between them. She chews contemplatively for a moment on a chocolate covered almond and then nods.

"I'm hoping for some good drugs," she smirks, skirting the question she knows that he is asking.

"But what is there's something...y'know...wrong?" he asks, poking at the ice creams with the tip of his spoon and digging out his own nut to chew on. She licks her spoon clean and then lays it carefully on the granite countertop so as not to create any noise.

"Then I guess I'll love him no matter what and we'll deal with whatever we need to." Her answer sounds braver than she feels inside as she says it. The closer the time comes the more she worries that it will all be more than she can handle. He stares at the pint of ice cream but doesn't dig into it. To ask the question she knows that it must be preying on his mind and that it isn't just being left behind on this one, last road trip that has him up in the middle of the night eating ice cream. "What about you?" she asks quietly, her heart suddenly refusing to beat as she holds her breath, waiting for his answer. At any moment he could change his mind and deny her and the child; that is the thought that has her wandering the big empty house like a ghost.

"I worry for him...him being compared to me," he admits quietly with the shrug of one massive bare shoulder, "and if there's something...if he isn't quite..." His voice fades as if he cannot or will not give voice to the words that are obviously at the tip of his tongue. The very real concern in his eyes makes her heart pound so hard in her chest she wonders if he can hear it. Reaching for his hand, she covers it with her own and squeezes.

"He's gonna be just fine," she tells him, feeling certain of it in that moment. He gives her a half smile in return and does not look nearly as certain. She starts to pull her hand away but with the smallest movement of his thumb, he captures her hand in his. She looks down at their joined hands and then up into his eyes, eyes that seem to glow in the dark as he looks at her.

She squirms under the weight of his gaze. He is searching her face, looking at her as if he has never seen her before. She reaches with her free hand for the ice cream, her fingertips barely grazing the rim of the container. His gaze breaks from her face and he pushes the container into her hand.

"I think I'll try and get some sleep," he mutters, sliding onto his feet. She watches him pad slowly away down the hall. The door to the master bedroom opens and closes. She does not take another bite of ice cream. She puts the top on it and puts it back into the freezer and puts the spoons in the dishwasher and then heads for the living room, pulls a thermal throw around her, finds an old black and white movie and settles in for the night.

* * *

><p>He lies awake, staring at the ceiling. He'd like to think that this wakefulness is a symptom of his head injury, except that he's been symptom free for weeks now. The churning in his gut is more than the nausea brought on by his concussion but he is not willing to admit that it has anything to do with the young woman in the room down the hall. He tells himself it is all about the child she is carrying and he almost believes it.<p>

When Vero instructed him to take good care of her as they stood in the driveway saying their goodbyes, it was easy for him to make that promise. He feels protective of her, or at least of the child she carries. He tells himself that it is natural, instinctual and he is a slave to his instincts out on the ice so he feels no reason to ignore them off the ice. He does not; however, understand the overwhelming urge he has had again to kiss her. He wanted to do that tonight when she'd tried to console him. He'd wanted to capture her full mouth with his and taste her lips.

Closing his eyes he does his best to dismiss the image from his mind. He has made her a promise that they will be friends and roommates and he has no intention of being anything more to her and yet he continues to have these possessive thoughts that leave him lying awake, thinking about her and now that she is so close, that she is right down the hall, his body refuses to relax.

"She is the mother of my child," he tells himself quietly, turning over to curl around his pillow while he squeezes his eyes tight and does his best to force her big, brown eyes from his mind. "It's natural I should feel _something_," he continues, trying to wrap his mind around these strange emotions he is feeling. There is a young boy inside him that is making faces and disgusted noises at the idea of feeling any kind of attraction to a pregnant woman with her distended belly and yet, her full ripe breasts and the sort of glow she walks around captures his attention time and again.

Sidney shuts his eyes tight and tries his best to bring to mind hockey plays, like going over tape with the boys. He even imagines Dan pointing out flaws, encouraging them to do better, coming up with new and innovative plays they can try in the next game. But even as he does, as he stares at the white ice with the players racing around, as he tries to imagine himself on the ice, it isn't the puck he focuses on. Instead he stands in the middle of the ice, ready to take a face of and looks up into the stands for her with those dark rimmed cat's eye glasses and simple pony tail. Not a model, not a sexy siren of the silver screen; just the girl from the diner.

Groaning, he rolls onto his stomach and presses his face into his pillow. There is a simple explanation for this he tells himself, and yet that does nothing to help him expunge her from his thoughts. Rolling his hands into fists he beats them into the mattress. He is at once angry with her for putting him in this position and drawn to her in a way that he cannot understand but beating the mattress into submission gets him nowhere and sleep eludes him and once again he finds himself on his feet, walking patterns around the carpet of the large, lavish and lonely room with its empty king sized bed and a silence that feels like a weight on his shoulders.

His life is upside down and frustrating enough without this, he thinks as he reaches for the handle on the door, thinking somehow that he needs to cast blame on her but as soon as he pulls the door open he shuts it again. It might make him feel better, for now and maybe long enough so that he can sleep but it will not solve their dilemma and, he knows as he runs his fingers through his dark hair, fighting with her will only make it worse. Heading back to his bed he sits on the edge of the mattress and stares at the back of the closed door. This arrangement that he had instigated, that he had thought would make it easier to keep her from being found out by the media, has him feeling like a tiger in a cage and that thought makes him smile. It is not a gilded cage for her, as his father had thought it would be, it is a fortress of solitude for him.

Her high, bell like laughter suddenly rings out in the silence and the gloom of his room and he lifts his head, nosing the air like a predator, the warm scents of popcorn and butter making his stomach contract and his fingers dig into the mattress.

"How can she laugh?" he hisses to himself as he glares at the back of his bedroom door as if he is waiting for day break and his jailor to free him. Giving his head a shake he pushes himself to his feet and heads for the door. "My house," he mutters to himself and drags the door open and pads almost silently down the hall.

There is a light, a sort of blue silver glow on the walls as he reaches the living room and finds her tucked into one corner of the couch under a throw, watching some old black and white movie with a guy and a little dog and some not bad looking chick in a fancy gown.

"Want some?" she asks, holding up the bag of microwave popcorn that is so fresh it is still steaming.

"You don't mind?" he asks, scrambling over the back of the couch, grabbing the end of the throw and pulling it over his lap.

"Can always make more," she shrugs before tossing a handful of popcorn into her mouth and chewing happily. Sid blinks at her and then at the screen and then digs his hand into the bag.

"So what are we watching?" he asks, his mouth full.

"Shadow of the Thin Man," she replies, reaching her hand out for him to tip some popcorn into.

"So what's going on?" he asks as she tosses a couple of hot buttery kernels into her mouth.

"Well there's this racetrack see and..."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

He hurts, or more correctly he aches in places like his neck and hip from sleeping in a strange position. He stretches and readjusts and then goes to put his arm back around the warm bundle that had been pressed against his side but his hand slides down the smooth leather of the couch and catches in the throw that is bundled in his lap. She is gone.

Sid rubs at his eyes and blinks into the half light that is leaking through the blinds. He can hear the sizzle and pop of bacon in a pan and can smell coffee brewing. His stomach rumbles. Rubbing sleep from his face and a line of dried drool from his chin, he pulls the throw around him and pads towards the kitchen.

"Hey," she says simply, breaking an egg over the pan with one hand. It is as impressive a move to him as when Flower snatches a rising puck out of mid air. He watches her do it again before he takes another step onto the tile floor.

"I don't eat breakfast," he explains, though his stomach disagrees with him, loudly. She smiles and makes a dismissive sound as she reaches for the pepper grinder and twists the head on it in a way that makes him grind his molars together.

"Are you kidding? It's the most important meal of the day and you can't go to the rink on an empty stomach," she says, not unreasonably. She puts the pepper mill down and moves gracefully despite her present bulk, to the fridge, pulling it open and pulling out a bag of oranges. "Cut these, throw them in the juicer," she instructs, leaving the bag on the counter beside the cutting board where a big knife is waiting. Dropping the throw onto one of the stools he does as he is bid, slowly, careful not to cut any of his fingers. He doesn't want any reason not to be back in the line up when the team comes back in a few days.

"I usually eat when I get finished with my work out," he explains as he takes one half moon section of orange and rips into the tart flesh with his teeth, letting the vitamin c explode into his mouth.

"Well that's stupid and your trainer would probably agree with me that you should have something in your stomach or your body won't have anything to use as fuel," she replies in a matter of fact tone that puts him in mind of both his mother and Mario's wife and he cannot help but imagine her giving their son the same advice.

"Well I don't eat bacon unless it's turkey bacon," he says, peering at what is in the pan in front of her and deciding that it is definitely not a low fat version. The pieces currently snapping and popping in the fat in front of her are thick and streaky and the sight of them makes his mouth water.

"A couple of pieces won't kill you and you're going to need all the strength you can get," she shrugs, turning the temperature down on the pan and reaching for a thick slice of multigrain bread which she drops in the toaster. "Marc says you've got testing today, to clear you to play. I'd say that's important enough to make sure your brain and the uh," she glances at his bare chest, her eyes wandering downwards before they snap back up to meet his, a little too round, like she's been caught red handed with her hand in the cookie jar, "the umm, rest of you is good to go too." He squares his shoulders and puffs out his chest and flexes just enough to make her cheeks turn a bright shade of pink before she turns back to the pan and lets her hair hide her expression from him.

It's something Jordan would do, he thinks, and maybe a bit childish but he delights in her discomfort all the same. He shouldn't do it, he tells himself as he goes back to the juicer and drops the orange segments in it, not if there is never going to be anything more than a platonic relationship between them and yet when he steals a glance back at her and finds her watching him his chest expands and so does his smile.

"Do you want to come to the rink? Watch me pass all the tests with flying colours?" he asks, thinking if she is impressed now how much more impressed she could be.

"I have to work but uh...maybe another time," she replies, reaching to get a plate down from the cupboard. His gaze travels down her legs as she goes up on tip toe and he remembers, with a start that makes him cough to cover the gasp that escapes from his lips, what it felt like to have those legs wrapped around him. If only he hadn't been such a god damned heel...

"You don't have to work," he snaps a little defensively as he turns back to the juicer, glad of its sudden mechanical roar, hoping that she won't hear the sudden increase in his heart rate. He makes two full glasses of freshly squeezed juice before he turns the thing off and trusts himself to turn and face her. She is walking two plates towards the breakfast bar. It's only then that he realizes that she is wearing a property of the Pittsburgh Penguins t-shirt, a shirt that must be his he knows but that isn't what has him standing stock still in the middle of the kitchen. For a moment he feels the world teetering on its axis, light swirling around him but not in the way he's become accustomed to. This has nothing to do with any concussion symptoms and everything to do with her maybe, finally admitting to being 'his'.

"What am I gonna do, sit around here and watch soaps all day?" she chuckles as if that's not a possibility.

"Or, like I said, come to the rink," he replies sincerely, putting the glass down beside her plate and taking a sip from his before he slides onto the stool beside hers. "We could go for lunch after, do some shopping. You said you needed some things...uh...diapers errr whatever," he adds, trying to remember what it was she had been saying to Vero before they left and wishing now that he had paid better attention.

"Well yeah I do but...I can't just quit my job. I mean, not if I want to go back to it," she replies simply, lifting a piece of buttered toast to her lips. He watches the multigrain bread disappear between her white teeth, watches those teeth bite into it and shifts uncomfortably on his stool.

"Why would you want to, if you didn't have to?" he asks, tearing his gaze away from her mouth as she chews and staring at the greasy bacon and two over easy eggs on his plate. He pokes one of the yokes with his fork and watches the yellow insides leak out. Tearing a piece of toast in two, he dips a corner into the yellow goo and lifts it to his mouth.

"Because I don't know what's going to happen...after," she answers quietly and he swallows with some difficulty. Just when he thinks they are getting along, after she slept in his arms and they had been chatting so easily, he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. After the baby is born...and then what, it's a question he knows he's been avoiding, a place he hasn't wanted to go yet because he isn't sure what the answer is or how he will feel.

"Yeah, I guess there's that," he mutters as he feels that wall that he had thought had been coming down between them go back up again and they sit, side by side, slowly and silently eating their breakfasts.

* * *

><p>She sits on the edge of the bed she did not sleep in, wearing her uniform, and stares at her feet. She can hear him in the room down the hall, hears him pull the zipper on his gym bag, hears him pulling drawers open and shoving them closed again. The smile that she had worn when she found herself waking up in his arms, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, her head full of his warm musky scent is long gone, replaced once again with the wariness she knows she must maintain. They are not a couple and they are not even friends. This is still a business transaction and despite how it had felt last night when they shared popcorn and laughed at the witty dialogue in the old movie, she is well aware that she is not here in his house because he really wants her here. She can't remember which song it is but the term 'comfy prison' keeps coming to mind as she slips her feet into her comfortable shoes.<p>

Despite the way it felt to wake up in his arms, she reminds herself of the paperwork in the manila envelope in the drawer of her bedside table that reminds her that a blood and hair will be taken the moment the child is born to prove that he is the child's father but that there are no promises beyond that moment. Their deal does not go beyond that point but she knows that there will be another deal then, more paperwork and more lawyers. It is a thought that makes her feel cold inside.

Her hand moves to her stomach as she feels their son stretch and tumble in a way that makes her wince. He was not made out of love and though she knows that she will love him, no matter what, the murky future ahead of them fills her with a sort of dread that makes it difficult for her to plan for his arrival and even more difficult for her to look forward to that day.

The vibration of an incoming text pulls her back to the present and she reaches for her phone to find a text from Vero.

_Just saw the cutest bassinette on line, Marc & I so buying it 4 u_

Fern's fingers hover over the keys, wanting to tell her not to, that it would be too much but instead she asks the slim brunette to wait.

_B 4 U do, send me the link. Saw 1 the other day at a 2nd hand store_

She sends her reply and then slips her phone into the front pocket of her apron. She can hear the door to his room opening and knows that he will call for her when he gets to the top of the stairs. Fern gets to her feet with some difficulty and then waits for a wave of nausea to pass before she crosses the floor and reaches for the door handle.

A quiet, respectful knock stops her from opening the door.

"Fern, you want a ride?" he asks through the door. She smiles but tries to dampen that smile before she opens the door.

"Thanks, that would be great," she says quietly as she opens the door. He has a ball cap pulled down over his eyes but it is to his full, sensuous mouth that her gaze is drawn. Just as she had when she'd woken up, she feels the inexorable pull towards that mouth, whetting her own lips with the tip of her tongue as she looks at it.

"You okay?" he asks as she nearly stumbles, his strong, steady hands clasping her upper arms and steadying her.

"Yeah, just...dizzy or something. I'll be fine," she mutters, putting on a brave face and her professional waitress's smile.

"Are you sure? I can take you to the doctor or the ER if you want," he says, actual concern making his brow knit and his mouth purse. She stares at his mouth and then gives her head a shake.

"I just get a little faint sometimes when I get up. I'll be fine," she assures him and his hands slide from her arms, leaving behind a faint tingling feeling that is both warm and the tiniest bit painful. His eyes narrow as if he doesn't believe her but then he looks away and waits for her to pass him. Her heart sinks, just a little. There is a part of her that had hoped he would insist, that he would put aside everything to be with her but the more pragmatic side of her dismisses that thought as she holds her chin up and makes her way out to his car.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

He sits alone in the dark sipping whiskey from a crystal glass and watches the clock. He has been cleared to play. What he wants is to celebrate; lift a few with the boys but they are not here. Hearing his father's voice, proud and expectant was good, but not quite the cherry on the top of his day.

The second hand sweeps the face of the clock and he takes another sip of the dark amber liquid, feeling it burn on its way down. The only sound is the minute hand ticking forward and the clink of the ice in the glass, oh, and the whirr of the gears in his brain as he thinks about taking the ice, about the first face off win, the first pass and, of course, the first hit.

Will it be hard, he wonders, as he the whiskey coats his tongue and who will it be? He's heard rumours that guys will take it easy on him but those are stories he dismisses. They have never been easy on him. His is a number that other players hunt and he knows that the next hit might end his career.

A shudder passes down his spine. The idea of never being on the ice again sits at the back of his mind, a throaty whisper in the dark like a warning phone call in a horror movie; '_he's in the house_'. It's like a threat written in blood. In his own blood which should make it worse, but like any warrior, it is a threat he dismisses easily. He will take the ice. They will chant his name. He will score a goal and lift his arms in the air in triumph, his teammates will pounce and he will roar like a lion over its kill.

Will she be there?

Putting the glass down he runs his fingers over the tickets as if he half expects to be burnt. His father is on his way, will be there like the proud papa bear, pounding his chest as he claims his cub. He will not put her there. He will not put her in that particular line of fire. If his mother could make she would insist on meeting Fern but luckily for all of them his sister has a game and his parents will divide their time between their offspring and he can put off that particular corner of hell until another time.

Palming his keys he gets up and slides the tickets into his breast pocket. Her shift ends soon. It might not be the celebration he wants but he tells himself that it is better than sitting in the dark and drinking on his own.

* * *

><p>She swipes the last table with a rag and pockets the meagre tip. Tips have gone down lately in direct proportion to the swelling of her stomach. Running her forearm across her forehead, she is already thinking about the massaging showerhead and her bed. Her thoughts are so focussed on the time she can take off her shoes that she doesn't see him sitting at the counter until she goes to put the cash in the register. The diner is almost empty, apart from a young couple at the other end of the diner sharing a banana split and two grizzled blue collar types sipping hot coffee to which they've added something from a flask. His broad shoulders and expensive pea coat cause him to stand out as neither college kid nor every-day-joe. No, Sidney Crosby will never be that she thinks as she closes the till.<p>

"Thought you might need a ride home," he says quietly, looking at her from beneath the brim of his ball cap.

"Thanks. I wasn't looking forward to the bus," she replies honestly, rubbing at the small of her back and wincing. It's been a long, busy shift and being on her feet for the entire time has not agreed with her condition. "Two minutes?" she says, holding up two fingers. He nods and goes back to reading the sports section.

"It's not for me to say but...that one...he's been here a few times lately, rides home and what not?" the older waitress, the one that will see the diner through until the early morning shift says without looking up from the pie she is slicing before adding it to the rotating display in the corner.

"Yup," Fern answers in the affirmative but does not offer more information than that.

"Handsome. Nice clothes. Good manners," the woman adds, her gaze sliding down the counter. Fern has seen her husband with his motorcycle jacket and skull cap tucked under his arm, tats right up to his chin, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"Mmmmhmm," Fern replies noncommittally, untying her apron and folding it over her arm, keeping her eyes lowered.

"So is he the one then? Got you up the spout?" the woman asks. Fern chews on her bottom lip and thinks carefully about her reply. If the woman knows who he is and she answers in the affirmative, gossip will spread like wildfire and it will be all her fault. If she does not and it's merely an innocent question, not to answer will only lead to more questions and...

"He's just someone I know, a friend," she says quietly as she takes her pen and order pad and places them under the counter. "See you tomorrow." She feels the woman's eyes on her as she walks down the length of the counter to where he is waiting. He folds the paper and puts it back where he found it, with the sugar, ketchup, salt and pepper.

"Ready to go?" he asks unnecessarily. She nods and waits for him to go ahead so she can follow. He holds out his hand. She stares down at it and then up at him. His shoulders are hunched so the collar on his coat hides most of his face. The brim of his ball cap does the rest. Tentatively she slides her hand into his and feels his warm hand close around her own. It is an unusual feeling and she does her best not to grin as he guides her out of the diner towards his car. "Didn't want you to fall, it's icy," he explains as he reaches past her to open the passenger door. He pauses there, his massive chest pressed to her shoulder, her hand still feeling as small as a child's in his but something is not quite right.

"Have you been...drinking?" The scent is familiar and he is so close that she can almost taste the oak barrels the whiskey on his breath was aged in.

"I had one, before I came here," he says defensively, letting go of her hand and moving away from her at the same time.

"Give me the keys." She holds then hand out that he had just been holding, her skin still warm from being tucked in his. He looks at her hand and then up at her as if she's done something foolish, his eyes narrowed, his full mouth pressed into a flat, unhappy line. "Being seen with me is one thing, being pulled over and having a cop smell that on your breath...," she lets her voice trail away as the inherent danger of even the threat of a dui comes to roost in his mind. He fishes the keys from his pocket and bounces them in his big hand once before he presses them into hers.

* * *

><p>She shoehorns herself behind the wheel, moving the chair back and forth until her toes barely reach the pedals but her swollen belly is not pressed against the wheel. He feels guilty and turns to stare out the passenger window as she puts the big vehicle in reverse and slowly backs it out of the parking lot.<p>

"I wondered if you'd come to the game," he blurts out as she eases the SUV onto the street. She drives like his mother, slower than strictly necessary and with both hands gripping the wheel as if there is a chance it might get away from her.

"So you passed everything? You're cleared to play?" she asks, he thinks, unnecessarily.

"Yeah...uh, I thought we could go somewhere, to y'know...celebrate," he adds, although some of the flash, the shine has gone out of the idea for him now that he is not in complete control. It's petulant and he knows it but he jams his fists into the pockets of his jacket and grinds his teeth just the same.

"I'm happy for you," she says and by the tone in her voice he knows that she genuinely means it. He glances over at her, at the way she glances in both the rear view mirror and the side mirrors before she changes lanes, at the look of utter concentration on her face as they come to a stop at a red light. They could already have a 'baby on board' decal on the car she is that careful. "But I'm tired," she sighs, shooting him a regretful look. The red reflection of the stop light shines on her face and makes her eyes seem very dark but her lips look as red as maraschino cherries and his gaze lingers there, thinking about how they might taste. "My ankles are so swollen...I just want a bath and then put my feet up," she continues as the light turns green and she eases the Land Rover forward again.

"Well maybe we can stop at a store, get something I can make while you have your bath," he suggests.

"You can cook?" Her mouth pulls back across her teeth and there is a playfulness in her smile that makes him swallow the immediate retort that comes to mind.

"Well no, not really," he says honestly. "But I can heat something up or put it in the oven. I'm pretty good at that," he adds, a smile finally pulling at the corners of his mouth as she laughs, the sound of old wind chimes filling the vehicles darkened cabin.

"Okay, it's a deal. Maybe we can find some kosher pickles...every time I gave out a burger today with that pickle on top I wanted to steal it."

* * *

><p>When she emerges from the bath it is just in time to see him lift the aluminum tray of lasagne from the oven, the cheese melted and just a little crispy around the edges. Her stomach rumbles appreciatively at the sight and he lifts his caramel coloured gaze to meet hers as he puts it down on the counter as if he can hear it. She tugs the elastic from her hair and lets it tumble down over her shoulders and shakes it out before she reaches to pull out a stool.<p>

"I thought we'd eat at the dining room table," he suggests with a nod towards the formal dining room. With a shrug she grabs the two plates, forks and knives and follows him into the dark room. He places the lasagne on two table savers and then pulls box of matches from his pocket and lights a pair of ivory coloured taper candles in the middle of the table. She arches an eyebrow but says nothing about the otherwise romantic ambience which includes music from his iPod plugged into the stereo system in the living room being piped into the dining room via speakers in the corner of the room.

She puts the plates out and goes back for glasses, one red wine for him and one ginger ale for her. When she gets back to the table he has moved the plates so that he is sitting at the head of the table and hers at the corner adjoining his rather than across the table from each other. She raises an eyebrow at this arrangement too but keeps her opinion to herself.

"I was wondering," he begins as he dishes the cheesy pasta onto the plates, "if you'd thought about names." Sliding into the chair meant for her she picks up her glass and takes a sip before she replies.

"I have," she begins putting her glass down again and waiting for him to sit. "If it had been a girl I've always liked the names Emily or Hannah but for a boy...," she glances up at him but he is looking down at his plate, his fork already embedded in the cheese and meat, "I thought Anthony or Simon." She waits for his reaction, searching his handsome features as he brings his fork up to his mouth. There is hardly any change to his expression until his gaze meets hers right before he puts the food in his mouth.

"As long as it's not something they can make fun of, like mine," he adds with a fleeting grin before he slides the food between his lips and begins to chew. She looks down at the food on her plate and tries to school the smile that tugs at the corners of her lips. She can hear the school yard taunts in her mind and knows from what she's read that it's true but she can't quite stop herself from smiling at the idea that the man sitting next to her now was once a boy smaller than the rest who was the prey to school bullies.

"Don't you have any ideas?" she asks and when he stops chewing and stares back at her blankly she laughs, lifting her hand to cover her mouth. "Well he is yours too, I think you should have a say in what he's called." He appears to think about this for a moment and then shrugs as he sticks his fork back in his food.

"Well it's not gonna be Troy, if that's what you're thinking," he says quietly. Her heart squeezes in her chest painfully for him, for the angry downturn to his full lips and the way that he stabs at his food. There is no use asking about grandfathers. She knows he has none.

"Maybe a player?" she suggests quietly. He pokes at his food and then shrugs again.

"There's Stevie Y but...I think Anthony or Simon are fine," he says quietly, lifting his gaze just enough to meet hers so that she can see he is sincere. She nods silently and he lifts another forkful of food towards his mouth. "Simon Anthony Crosby...sounds good to me."

* * *

><p>She is almost asleep as the opening credits to the movie they have chosen begin. She covers a yawn but her eyes are drooping despite her best efforts to keep them open. He watches her from a safe distance down the couch as she forces her eyes to open wide as Channing Tatum, in his Roman legionnaire's uniform appears on the screen.<p>

"Feet," he says, holding his hands out. She looks at his hands and shakes her head. "C'mon, you said your feet were sore. I have trainers that do this all the time. Feet," he insists, flexing his fingers until a pale foot emerges from beneath the afghan. He slides closer to her and puts her foot in his lap and begins to work at it, digging his fingers into her instep, listening to the fine cracking of the small bones of her feet as he drags his thumbs over the top of her small foot. She sighs and leans back and gives him a sheepish smile. "Watch the movie," he instructs. She turns her attention back to his big screen TV, affording him a long look at the pale line of her throat where he watches her pulse beating steadily in her neck.

When he digs both thumbs into her instep she makes a noise that he's almost sure he's heard, once before and he turns his gaze quickly to the screen but doesn't see action on it. He shifts so that he is almost sitting sideways, so that her foot does not accidentally brush the near erection as his cock rises to the sound of her submission.

"Other foot," he commands quietly and she shifts so that the first foot disappears under the throw and the second emerges, pale and small, and slides into his hand. As she shifts, so does the strap on the tank top she is wearing. It falls from her shoulder so that the graceful line of her neck is unfettered. He stares at the long line of exposed flesh and wonders how something so ordinary can make his mouth become dry.

He runs his hands up the back of her heel towards her calf and her gaze shifts to meet his. He knows his eyes are too wide, as if he's been caught doing something that he should not, but he does not stop. He massages her calf muscle, working at the tight knot behind her knee and watches while she bites down on her bottom lip, at how she drags it into her mouth, at how the pulse in her throat quickens.

It would be simple, he thinks, to slide his hands further up her leg, to press her back into the couch and generate more of those little noises and part of him wants to. The other part of him drags his fingers down to her foot again and forces his attention back to the screen. Someone's head is rolling across a dusty road. A battle is ensuing.

She tries to withdraw her foot but he holds onto it, working his fingers gently but firmly up the outside edges of her foot. The screen goes to black as the main character is run over by a chariot. He glances over at her. Her eyes are closed. He takes a deep breath and turns his eyes back to the screen. His moment of weakness has passed.


	16. Chapter 16

_Happy New Year everyone, hope you're all doing well and here's hoping we see Sid again sometime this year!_

Chapter 16

"Not _his_ jersey?" Vero whispers as she slides her arm through Fern's and together they join the stream of fan's making their way into the arena. There's a significant buzz in the air and the seats are filling early.

"The jersey I have doesn't fit anymore," Fern explains in a hushed whisper, bumping Vero with her hip, "and besides I like this shirt," she adds, glancing down at the faded black Property of the Pittsburgh Penguins shirt she is wearing over a thin white long sleeved shirt to keep out the cold. Not that she feels cold, not yet anyway. She has been running warm but she has a jacket which she is carrying under her other arm if she does get cold sitting closer to the ice.

"They have super cute maternity shirts," Vero pipes up as they pass the team store with long lines of people buying jerseys, flags and stuffed penguins. Fern shakes her head.

"I don't think the idea is to attract attention to it," she says as they continue past the lines at the beer vendors and she wrinkles her nose as the scent of steaming hotdogs reaches her nose.

"Bit late for that if you ask me," V glances meaningfully down at her prominent belly and Fern sighs and shrugs. A jersey probably would have hid it better than his oversize t-shirt but there is something about knowing it is _his_ shirt and being here that appeals to her, even if she and maybe the woman with her know it.

They make their way past the usher who only nods at them, obviously recognizing the Pens' goaltender's slim good looking girlfriend as they make their way down the stairs to a pair of seats directly across the ice from the bench and just far enough up so that the glass is not a hindrance to their view of the ice. Fern picks up the cardboard sign on their seat and smiles. There is a matching sign on each and every seat in place that simply reads 'Sid'.

"Was he nervous when he left?" Vero asks, sliding into her seat and placing the placard across her knees.

"Not that I noticed," Fern replies, her gaze on the tunnel across the ice. She does not add that she remains uncertain about his ever changing moods and what they might mean. "He was very...quiet," she adds which causes Vero to nod.

"Marc too," she whispers, reaching for Fern's hand and giving it a quick squeeze. "Don't look now but you're being photographed." Wide eyed Fern's head immediately swivels in the direction of a group of girls, all in jerseys, taking pictures of them with camera phones.

"Why are they taking pictures of _us_?" she hisses. Vero stares straight ahead, the taught line of her jaw the only give away that she knows she is being stalked.

"It's me," the slim brunette answers simply. "They know who I am but believe me if they knew who _you_ were," she adds, digging her elbow into Fern's side, "they'd probably be over here pulling out your hair." Fern swallows, audibly and then trains her attention on the still empty ice. "I'm sorry if that sounded unkind," Marc's girlfriend says after awhile, her fingers knitting the ends of her Penguins scarf anxiously, "but it's true. They can be so...catty and I'm only Marc's girlfriend. You should see the things they say about Catherine and Heather. It's just...so _mean_," she adds quietly, biting down on her bottom lip.

Fern does not tell her new friend that she has visited those forums where girls gossip as if they actually know the players. Not that she's dared to visit any of them since that fateful night though she had been sorely tempted to do so immediately after if only just to say that Mr. Wonderful was not nearly 'all that'. She is glad now that she had not given into that particular temptation but the idea that those 'catty' girls might start talking about her...

"I wonder if he's nervous now?" she asks, steering the discussion towards a subject that, if not exactly more comfortable, is at least less emotionally precarious for both of them.

"Sid? I doubt it," Vero grins and all thoughts of puckbunnies is set aside, for now.

* * *

><p>Five minutes into the game it happens. The puck is on the blade of his stick and he knows this is the moment. All of the testing and the training is about to culminate in the next moment. He can see the play developing before him as if the world has slowed down to a crawl. He knows each move before the defensemen make up their mind to do them. He can see the goalie anticipating his next move and is two moves ahead. With a flick of his wrist the twine bulges.<p>

He skates to the corner, arms up in the air and turns towards his teammates yelling like it's his first goal all over again. It feels like it. All of the tension lifts from his shoulders as the goal horn blares in his ears. He accepts the congratulations of his teammates and sees the same relief in their eyes that he is feeling. They'll deny it to his face but he can clearly see they have not kept the faith that he will be able to return the same player who left them, even while they assure him that they always knew that he would.

He doesn't think of her until he's on the bench. That is not a surprise. He hadn't thought about his family when he won the cup until after he had hoisted it. Teammates are first, they guys that fight in the trenches with you. Family comes later. But when he does, when he looks across the ice he can't help but smile to see her clapping and grinning like everyone else in the stands. She is looking up at the replay on the jumbo-tron and her hands press together like she's making a prayer. He watches her for a moment, strange new feelings stirring in the pit of his stomach.

He is oddly happy that she is smiling and it occurs to him that it matters that she is pleased. If he cannot physically share this moment with her it is still important to him that she feels the same. It's a new and strange sensation, one that he tries to momentarily drown with Gatorade and shake off as he attempts to focus on the tape on his stick.

This is one of those things that he has always been envious of with some of his teammates, especially Flower; having someone to share these moments with, to know that there is someone who will be happy for him and that when he goes home she will be waiting to go over it all again, that she might even hug him and he realizes with a start that he wants that hug, that he is aching for some sign, any kind of approval from her.

"Glad to have you back," Dan says, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

"Glad to _be_ back," he replies, snapping his attention back to the game. After all, it's hardly over and there's a good chance he will earn a few more points towards that congratulatory hug.

* * *

><p>She has often wondered what it would be like to walk through the heavy double doors to the Pens dressing room, to step around the logo in the middle of the floor and to be amongst the sweaty young men in and some nearly entirely out of their gear. She doesn't know where to look and can't take her eyes off any of it. It is sensation overload, including the overwhelmingly rank, damp, musty smell that makes her eyes water.<p>

Vero moves confidently through the press of warm bodies and doesn't cover her mouth or pinch her nose as she makes her way straight to her man for a soft kiss and a lingering hug that makes Fern feel like a fifth wheel and has her looking for some corner to disappear into. As soon as she tries to sidestep her way into a crowd of reporters an arm snakes around her waist and she lets out a yelp that has half of the eyes in the room turned towards her.

"Bon soirée ma petite serveuse, comment allez-vous cette belle soirée?" She is able, just, to turn her head enough to have his dark hair drip onto her cheek before he dips her and presses a cheeky kiss to the corner of her mouth. Her pulse jumps as she blinks up into Kris's Disney Prince handsome grin.

"Fine, as long as you don't drop me," she giggles, thinking about every fantasy she ever dared to imagine may have started with Kris Letang in nothing but a towel.

"Moi, pas possible mon cher," he muses, putting her back on her feet as if she weighs no more than the towel he has laying over one massive shoulder which he then lifts and runs through his dark, damp hair and she is left, biting her lip to stifle a whimper, as he struts across the room, clearly aware of his effect on hers and every other pair of eyes in the room.

"Pah, spray tan," Marc mutters behind her and she has to cover her mouth with both hands to stifle a shriek of surprise before she and Vero are clutching one another and giggling out loud.

"You played well tonight," she tells him honestly but the quiet, mild mannered goal tender merely shrugs and looks nonplussed.

"No one cares about all the stops I made tonight," he adds, raising a single eyebrow and sending a meaningful look towards the scrum of reporters and the bright lights still aimed at the end of the benches where she knows _he_ is still fielding questions. "Did you enjoy the game?" he asks, bringing her attention back to him. She nods, enthusiastically and he smiles brightly. "Good, c'est tout," he adds, as if it is truly all that matters.

"Will you wait for him or can we drive you home?" Vero asks, as if she is actually eager to continue sharing her company rather than that of her husband. Fern shakes her head.

"I'll get a cab or something, you guys...do whatever you do. Don't worry about me," she says quietly with a longing look towards where she can just make out the top of his head, his sweat soaked, salt encrusted ball cap of his barely visible through the crush of reporters around him.

"I insist," Flower says quietly, draining a water bottle and tossing it aside. "He'll be ages still and you shouldn't be on your feet," he adds thoughtfully, sending another narrow eyed look towards the crowd. "D'accord?" It isn't to his girlfriend that he looks but to Fern, who, wide eyed, mutely nods her agreement. "Meet you outside, ten minutes." This direction he gives to Vero and then turns to head into the showers.

* * *

><p>He watches them go, Vero leading Fern through the maze of bodies with the ease of long practice and the knowledge that those in the know will make room for her. A sense of possessiveness and of an opportunity missed makes him grind his teeth and snap a monosyllabic answer to the next question. It is not always easy to be him and at this moment, it is hardly bearable.<p>

He has had to watch, from the corner of his eye while Tanger kisses her and Flower is the only one to make her feel at home here in their room. He is able to do neither and he is the one who asked her to be here, a fact that grates at him and makes it even more clear that there is something more going on here than he had reckoned on.

He also realizes that he is reaching his limit with the reporters, his answers becoming terse and abrupt; hardly the actions of the good Canadian kid, especially tonight when he should be elated, should be all smiles but the questions keep coming and he even a sharp look towards the media relations officer for the team does not end his misery.

"Guys, could you just...two minutes." The astonished looks on the faces staring back at him tells the story. He's never done it before, never stopped an interview, never put the personal before the professional, until now. "Sorry," he mutters as he ducks under the hot lights and the microphone booms and pushes his way past the family members and friends of his teammates, uttering apologies under his breath as he does.

She isn't gone and his heart stops, just for a second, when he reaches out and grasps her arm. She looks up at him with those big, fathomless dark eyes of hers and for that one eternal second he forgets what he was in such a rush to say.

"I won't be long...," he begins, forgetting to breathe when her bewildered bug-eyed stare softens to a smile and a nod. "Uh..._too_ much longer anyway...if you want to wait that is," he adds, feeling more than seeing Flower's disapproving gaze over his shoulder.

"Here?" she asks, looking up and down the busy corridor where stick boys and equipment and arena staff are buzzing like worker bees in a hive and reporters with their cameras shouldered and stylish suits are making their way from one room to the other and family and friends are milling around nearby. "Or...?"

"If you go down the hall, there's a lounge..., Flower can show you...?" he looks hopefully back towards his friend who shrugs but nods. "I'll be as quick as I can and then maybe we can get a pizza or something?" Her smile noticeably brightens and for a moment he dares to hope.

As he watches them wind their way down the hall, he can't help but think how long he's been envious of Flower and V and their intimacy, their friendship and their secret way of smiling at one another speaks volumes without their needing to utter a single word.

Steady, that's how he's often described them. They are consistent. For Flower, V is his ever fixed mark or something like that. It's something he read in a poem for a class sometime or maybe it's from a movie and it has stuck with him, has become his ideal for what real love should be just as Flower and V have. She would be his constant, _his_ ever fixed mark and there is something about Fern...something sturdy and steadfast that he is beginning to think might be more important than rosy lips and cheeks which, like the poem says, only fade with time.

_Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
>Within his bending sickle's compass come<em>

_Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
>But bears it out even to the edge of doom <em>

"So, where were we?" he asks as he slides onto the bench in front of his equipment.

"Well, how does it feel?" a young, eager looking reporter asks. The question has been asked previously tonight and he had given some pat, hollow answer that hadn't meant anything. Now he smiles brightly, meeting that reporter's keen gaze and says:

"I feel great. I think everything's coming around for me."

* * *

><p>"So how are things at the house?" Marc asks without turning, his hand on the door to the player's lounge, the door still closed, V still on the other side of it.<p>

"Fine," she replies, wondering as she says it why she feels the small hairs on the back of her neck standing up in warning.

"He's treating you...well?" He will not meet her querying gaze and she senses in his tone an accusation underlies the question. She tugs at a stray thread on the hem of her shirt as she considers her words before replying.

"He hasn't hit on me, if that's what you're getting at," she replies quietly, but firmly. He nods and seems to also consider his answer before he gives it.

"Because I would, I mean...if I were him I would have by now," he says, very quietly but with no hint of humour in his voice. If she gasps it is not exactly out loud but her mouth falls open all the same and she is left standing there gaping at him, unable to form a response. "Don't look at me like that, as if it's not possible that I would. I am a man, despite my nickname," he adds with a the hint of the playful smile she is more accustomed to seeing him wear.

"Yes but..., but...?" She looks towards the door, thinking of the slim, pretty brunette waiting for him on the other side.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to," he smiles enigmatically and then smirks as if he can't quite keep up the ruse. "I just...the way you look now...that you're having his child...I can't believe that he can still look at you like...like _that_." Still half in shock she frowns but cannot voice the question that is on the tip of her tongue. He answers it all the same. "I can't believe he still thinks that you could win a dogfight."


	17. Chapter 17

_& so the long awaited confrontation begins_

**Chapter 17**

The corridor is nearly empty of human beings by the time he is making his way through it, still straightening his tie, his jacket over his arm, his hair still wet from the shower. He'd normally have a wool cap over it or have spent half at least half an hour gelling it half to death, but tonight is not a normal night. Normally after a win he'd be looking forward to a late night snack with the guys, maybe a few drinks before bed but not this night. Tonight he has come to a realization, an epiphany, and tonight will not be about hockey or about being one of the boys.

'_Family man'_. It's a term he's heard used about some of his teammates, a term that he himself has used when defending Cookie to other players or the media for instance. It is not a term he has thought about a great deal, just a couple of words thrown together that seem to signify certain virtues like patience, reliability, maturity. They are all words that have been applied to him but he's never felt actually described him.

Until now.

'_I'm going to have a family'_, he thinks to himself with a smile, still trying out the description, rolling it around in his mind to see how it feels. His stomach still jumps when he thinks about the responsibility but the words no longer strike fear in his heart. In fact he is wearing a smile that he has not been able to wipe off of his face ever since he got on the ice and it does not just have to do with having a four point night.

"Did they leave you here on your own?" he asks as he pushes open the door to the lounge to find her standing on her own, her back to him, studying a team picture on the wall, their Cup win in '09. Her jacket is also hanging from her arm but that isn't what he notices first. He had noticed before the t-shirt she is wearing, one of his own, and that knowledge makes his smile grow by a degree but so does the way the jeans she is wearing pull snugly across her ass. He tries to remember if he had noticed it before, maybe that first night, and then dismisses the thought. It doesn't matter, he decides, if he had noticed it before, he is noticing it now.

"Did you win?" she asks and he stops, almost skidding to a stop, his brow creasing. She watched the game. She knows.

"Yeah five nothing," he tells her, his eyes narrowed as he stares, disbelieving, at her narrow back. If he didn't know she was seven months pregnant it would be hard to tell from this angle. From this angle she is a girl that he, or any of his teammates, would look twice at on the street.

"I mean _that_ night," she corrects him, turning her weary, tear stained face towards him. "The dog fight...did you win, because I'd hate to be a disappointment and everyone knows how competitive you are."

The smile he has been wearing since almost the very moment his skates hit the ice this evening is erased, suddenly and indefinitely. He stares back at her, stunned and open mouthed but can think of nothing to say to take the sting back from the knowledge her big brown eyes are suddenly filled with, to dampen the pain that is plain in the crease on her brow or to turn up the corners of her full mouth. He can't blame Flower, or not entirely, _he_ has done this. He has lived with the knowledge, the shame of it, for some time but as long as she did not know he thought that he could forget about it. Clearly he can no longer live in that delirious state of denial.

"I'm sorry." It's not enough, he knows, not nearly enough to encompass all of the things that he has done and not done but it is a beginning. One corner of her mouth tilts up but the darkness in her eyes remains deep and angry.

"Sorry for getting caught or just sorry that you're in this position?" she asks, tilting her head to one side and looking at him as if she's disgusted with what she sees, as if he's grown horns and a tail since he saw her in the dressing room.

"It's not...," his voice drops away to nothing. He was about to tell her that it isn't like that except that he knows that it is exactly like that, or it was, right up until about three hours ago. Her mouth twists into a bitter smirk and her shoulders lift and drop in a sigh before she drops her gaze from his as if she can't completely keep up the sinister angry mask.

"I know I'm not pretty like Vero or a lot of those other girls but...a dog, really?" She glances up at him through her bangs and the anguish in her eyes is so palpable that he lifts his hand and covers the spot on his chest under which his heart should be beating if he had one because clearly, to hurt this girl he must not have.

"You _are_," he insists, taking a step forward but she shakes her head and sends him the kind of warning look that a dog will right before it bites. He stops, the distance between them seeming as vast as the expanse of the Grand Canyon.

"Don't," she cut him off with a wave of her hand, "please, don't patronize me. I know what I look like and it's not like...," she looks towards the doorway and he can clearly see her thinking about Marc's lithe, petite and pretty girlfriend.

"Not like Veronique?" he takes a tentative step forward. "She didn't always look like that...she's had a couple of _small_ things done," he assures her, "not that Marc thought she had to but because they made her feel better," he adds quickly and, he hopes, reassuringly. "Not that it matters," he adds when her mouth purses and she looks at him as if she's going to argue about it.

"No," she says quietly, but firmly, "it really doesn't and it doesn't change the fact that I know that I'm not..._pretty_ like that," she adds and then tilts her head so that her bangs fall into her face, like a kitten hiding in plain sight behind a lamp stand, tail twitching, waiting to be found and pounced on. The thought makes him smile.

"Maybe not but...I've gotten used to it...your face," he says suddenly, the words escaping all in torrent. He is shocked by his sudden admission but once the words have escaped and she is looking back at him like he's said something completely peculiar he knows that it is nothing more than the truth. "I like it," he adds a little more softly, taking another step forward, "your face, I've grown used to it."

"You don't have to say things just to make me feel better. Or would that be to make you feel better?" she says accusingly. It isn't even as much as he deserves, he knows, but he takes it and lets it roll off of his back just like he does the jabs and the names he is called on the ice and in the press.

"It actually doesn't," he smirks feeling that flutter of fear in his chest that's not unlike when he glides up to the face-off circle at the beginning of the game, the sense that you never know what to expect. "In fact I'm scared shitless," he admits, taking that final step that closes the distance between them.

"What are you doing?"she asks as she watches him with distrust while he reaches out to brush her hair back from her cheek.

"Fucked if I know," he admits as he leans in and presses his lips over hers.

* * *

><p>It's a soft kiss, a tender and hesitant kiss. It's a kiss that she wants, very much, to lose herself in but she does not. She cannot. She breaks off the kiss, closing her eyes and turns away.<p>

"Don't tease me, please," she whispers, brushing fat, hot tears from her eyes. "I don't deserve that," she adds, trying to sound more fierce than she can actually muster.

"No," he replies. She feels his hand on the small of her back and bites down on her bottom lip. She wants to lean back against him but will not allow herself to find the comfort in his touch, "No you don't," he agrees, his breath warm on her cheek. "I know that you have no reason at all to trust me and I know that this is probably seems like it's come out of the blue but...tonight I realized that I was glad you were here...that I was actually looking forward to seeing you." Her heart squeezes hard in her chest and she gnaws anxiously on her bottom lip to stop from sniffling out loud.

"That's not fair," she hisses, wrapping her arms around herself to stop herself from flying apart, a sensation that she has become accustomed to whenever he is this near to her. "You know I like...that I _liked_ you. So now you hold out a crumb to keep me sweet and keep me quiet, to stop me from running off to the nearest reporter and telling them exactly what you've done."

"You won't," he says, sounding more certain than she thinks that he should. She turns to him, ready to tell that she will, that she might, but the honesty in his eyes gives her pause. "You won't but not because of me but because you're a good person, a thoughtful person. It's probably the same reason that you decided you could keep the baby despite everything," he adds, his gaze slipping down to her protruding belly. He reaches to touch it and though she grows still, holding her breath, she forces herself not to flinch when his hand caresses her swollen belly. "I don't deserve your trust. I've been a fucking ass to you but...," his gaze slowly rises to meet hers and there is a man in his eyes she doesn't think that she has ever seen, "I'm not lying, not now."

She looks down at where his fingers are splayed across her belly and then up into his eyes, that familiar fluttering in her chest making it hard to for her to maintain the seething anger that has allowed her to maintain the emotional wall she's built around her heart.

"So what are you saying?" she asks, a little voice in the back of her mind telling her that she can't trust him, that she should run as far away from him as her legs will carry her but the other part, the part that wants to taste the mint on his lips one more time, to trust the look in his eyes keeps her rooted to the spot.

"I'm not sure," he admits, a half a smile tugging at the corner of his full mouth as he looks down at her belly and then up into her face. His other hand reaches up to cup her cheek and his gaze searches hers. "I'm still scared about this whole thing, like _shit_ scared but...now I'm kinda looking forward to it too," he adds as his grin grows and his lips pull back from his teeth, "kinda like I look forward to seeing this face when I come home."

A shudder runs down the length of her spine and a whimper of defeat escapes from lips as she realizes that he has detonated a stick of dynamite beneath the walls around her heart as his lips brush gently over hers and her body sways into the warmth of his arms.

"Ready to go? You hungry?" he asks, as if it is a normal, everyday thing to go out to dinner with Sidney Crosby after a game. She nods and allows him to guide her out of the room, her head still spinning, her knees a little weak and her breathing short and shallow.

* * *

><p>The maitre d did a double take when he took Fern's coat and now the waitress is openly gawking at Fern as she mulls over the menu. This is his favourite Italian restaurant where they have always been respectful of his privacy but now he is beginning to wonder if he should have taken her somewhere he is not quite so well known.<p>

"I'm not really that hungry," she sighs, flipping the menu over to look at the deserts, licking her lips as her gaze scans the page.

"I'm always hungry after a game," he explains as he hands his menu to the waitress after ordering lobster ravioli with white wine sauce and a side salad. "Sometimes the team orders in, sometimes we all go out after."

"And pick up girls?" she finishes for him, raising an eyebrow as she too hands off her menu. "Just the chocolate and orange mascarpone cannoli and some blueberry tea please."

"Yeah, sometimes," he agrees, keeping his voice low and shrugging, feeling a slow burn that rides up his neck to the tips of his ears. "Not all of the guys...not Pascal or Brooks, definitely not Marc."

"Just Jordy, TK, Kris...and _you_," she adds with a smirk. He tries not to smile but fails and reaches for warm roll and begins to tear it apart on his side plate.

"Oh damn. I have this craving for fresh baked bread all the time lately," she sighs and reaches for the basket just as he is about to spread the herb and garlic butter on it. She stares at his plate and laughing he offers her the first half. She takes a bite and then closes her eyes and lets out a long low moan. "Oh god, it's heaven," she mumbles with her mouth full and he feels a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. A half an hour earlier she had been cold and reserved and now she is practically having an orgasm in public. It is moments like these that are drawing him towards her. Buttering the other half of the bun he hands it to her and lets his fingers brush along hers. Their gazes lock. She smiles shyly.

"Say the word," he whispers, his stomach suddenly full of butterflies, "and there will be no other girls." Her smile disappears and her gaze drops to the white table linen. "Too far," he admonishes himself, sitting back in his chair and draining half a glass of rich red wine.

"Just a little," she agrees and when he looks up he is relieved to see that she is wearing a small but still wary smile. "It's probably a good idea that we don't get ahead of ourselves. I mean...I'm all hormonal or whatever and you're probably still suffering from that bump on your head." She is graciously providing him a means to back out on what has already occurred this evening. He imagines that she expects him to backtrack. He does not plan to.

"You're right, this probably isn't the time," he says, ripping open another bun and handing her half. _There is always later_, he thinks to himself as he watches her happily fill up on bread.

* * *

><p>She is nearly dead on her feet by the time he pulls his SUV into the driveway. She waits for him to come around and open the door and leans heavily on him as she gets out of the vehicle. She has been stifling yawns all of the way home and now that her bed is within reach, her eyes are drooping.<p>

"Here, let me carry you," he offers, pushing the door open and pocketing his keys.

"I can walk," she insists just as both of her hands fly up to cover another jaw unhinging yawn.

"Yeah, right," he laughs and with ease sweeps her up off of her feet and cradles her against his mile wide chest.

"You'll take_ any_ excuse to show off," she grumbles but leans her cheek against his neck as he kicks the door shut behind them. He carries her with ease up the stairs and through the darkened house but instead of turning left as he passes through the living room, he turns right. "Sidney," she hisses, and wriggles to slide free but his grip is like an iron claw and he only tightens it the more she strains to get free. "First of all I don't even know how that would work and second of all I'm exhausted and..." The air is driven momentarily from her lungs when she is tossed onto his king sized bed.

"And my bed is bigger, you should have it. I should never have let you talk me into letting you take the smaller room," he chuckles, leaning near her to turn on the light on the side table. "I'll start moving my stuff out tomorrow," he adds with a playful smirk while she rolls her eyes into the back of her head and wishes for a giant hole to open up in the time space continuum and swallow her whole. "Anything you need from your room?" he asks in a less playful. more gentle tone, dropping a kiss onto her forehead, "or are you just gonna keep stealing my t-shirts?"

"They're comfortable and it's cheaper than buying new pj's," she smirks and he grins.

"Okay...see you in the morning?" he asks and she's sure the real question he's asking is if she's going to bolt in the middle of the night.

"Bacon and eggs or pancakes?" she asks.

"Surprise me," he replies and then a little awkwardly, with a couple of starts and stops he leans down and presses a quick kiss to her lips and then turns and leaves the room. She stares at the door he pulls closed behind him and then lays flat on his bed, surrounded by his scent, his things and pulls a pillow over her face and muffles a long, high pitched scream.


	18. Chapter 18

_yes those of you who know me well enough called it. I can't just let it all be unicorns dancing on rainbows made of skittles and for those of you who also wondered when I'd pull the Troy card..._

**Chapter 18**

There is a part of him that is genuinely relieved to find her cracking eggs and slicing bread just out of the bread-maker when he returns from his morning jog; a jog whose normal purpose is to clear the cobwebs and put to rest the game from the night before. This morning's jog is in place of a cold shower, a cold shower he decides might still be in order as he drinks in the sight of her in nothing but one of his practice jerseys, her legs bare. There is something, he decides, about her bare feet he particularly likes, how small they are, the high arch the small and her tiny round perfectly manicured toes.

"Bread again?" he teases, stealing up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his sweat dampened cheek to her warm and rosy one.

"Turkey bacon," she points to several streaky pieces bubbling and crackling in a pan on the stove, "and I was thinking scramble but if you'd rather have an omelette I think there's some Gouda or provolone in the fridge." Besides bread she's been eating her way through the cheese section at the local deli. He makes a mental note to bring her something back from the upcoming road trip.

"Omelette it is," he grins and reaches around her to steal a piece of bacon from the pan. She smacks his hand with a spatula but she is too late. He bites off the end, chews it and swallows it quickly before leaning in to offer a kiss. She pulls back, just enough so that he only gets her cheek. He raises an eyebrow.

"Just...you need to give me some time to adjust. I mean...you do remember the poster over my bed?" she says focussing all of her attention on the eggs and milk she is whisking. "I'm still not sure I've got the two of you straight in my head." He smirks at the memory of the dozens of pictures in her room and then shrugs.

"I think you've gotten over _that_ guy," he offers, chewing thoughtfully on the rest of his stolen piece of bacon.

"Maybe," she replies seriously with a quick sideways glance at him, "but that doesn't mean I'm ready to accept that you have real feelings for anything more than this," she adds, her free hand cradling her protruding stomach. He nods, accepting her assertion but with a shrug leans in and presses a quick peck to her cheek.

"Then it's up to me to prove otherwise." He reaches for another piece of hot, crispy bacon but this time she is quicker with the whisk and he is forced to withdraw his hand, shaking off the sting.

"Sidney Crosby, the picture of domestic bliss, I'm not sure anyone will believe it," she smirks and shakes her head at him. She is doing her best to keep him at arms' length but there is a new light, a sparkle, in her eyes that tells him that though he has not yet won the war, he is coming close to winning this battle. He grabs a handful of the jersey and moves in to steal a kiss.

"Well I certainly don't." The sound of another voice in the room makes him freeze and one look at her now very round, panic filled eyes tells him that his ears are not misleading him. Her gaze shifts quickly to meet his and every single, solitary negative allegation about his father in the press and on the internet runs behind her eyes. The bacon has begun to burn. "I think we need to talk son," his father says using his 'I'm disappointed in you' tone that Sid has rarely heard in the last couple of seasons.

He wonders if he should introduce her. He thinks that it would be the right thing to do, that protocol requires it of him and more than that he should not leave her here thinking the worst but as often happens when his overbearing, overprotective father is around, he becomes a ten year old boy and ten year old boys have very little use for protocol, not to mention girls.

"Sure. Let's go to the office," he suggests quietly and without looking back he swipes a still warm piece of bread from the cutting board and heads down the hall.

* * *

><p>"Well that looked very cozy." His father seems to take up so much of the room, so much of the oxygen that the air that the room feels tight, dark and the air heavy and hard to breathe. Sid stares out the window at the pool in the backyard covered with a tarp, making a mental note to call about getting a fence and gate installed.<p>

"It is," he answers dryly, trying his best to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of knowing that his father's beady eyes are boring into the back of his head, willing him to turn around so that he can aim the full force of his disapproval at his son.

"You don't get _cozy_ with the enemy son," his father replies, sarcasm dripping heavily from his voice.

"She isn't the enemy. She's just...Fern," Sid replies, just the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips as she says her name. It tastes like smooth, creamy cheesecake on his tongue.

"I knew I shouldn't have left you alone to handle this. You're too much your mother's son. You're falling for the old trap boy, you're starting to see her as human," his father snorts. Sidney doesn't need to look at his father to know that it isn't only amusement he can hear in his father's voice. His old man is enjoying this.

"You think you know all about it but you don't," Sidney replies very quietly. It isn't easy for him to stand up to his father. It is even harder for him to argue against him.

"Oh c'mon kiddo, it's the oldest trick in the book. She gets her hooks into you, bleeds you dry..." Sid holds up a hand and for once his father actually falls silent on request.

"If anyone's motives are suspect around here they're mine," he sighs, running his fingers through his still wet hair.

"You still gettin' your dick wet elsewhere?" Sid winces when he feels his father's huge meaty hand dig into his shoulder and grinds his teeth at the obvious pride in his father's voice.

"No, dad, I'm not," he replies, suddenly tired. He shrugs his father's hand from his shoulder and moves away. The room isn't finished but there is a signed Yzerman jersey on one wall, Brodeur's game stick mounted on another. There are pictures piled in one corner, moments he wants to remember, moments that he is proud of. He wonders if this will be one of this will be one of those moments. "Maybe I wasn't sure of her motives before but...Fern is a good person...a better person than me," he says simply before turning to his father who is looking at him with suspicion, with resentment."She doesn't trust me, not that she should. I haven't done a damn thing to deserve it but I want to. I know you don't want to hear this but I like her and I care about her and I don't think she'd do anything to hurt me."

"You don't know a damn thing about this broad," his father counters caustically.

"I know enough to know she has a good heart," Sidney replies, forcing himself to meet his father's unimpressed expression with a determined one of his own.

"Jesus Christ son, next thing you'll be telling me that you're in love with the little slut." Sidney doesn't deny it. Not that he is...yet, but he knows if things continue the way he plans for them to it is only a matter of time. That vein in Troy's forehead begins to throb and his face begins to turn red. _Next_, Sidney thinks as he stands facing his father's impending fury, _steam will erupt from his ears and then his head will blow off._ "Listen son, I know that you want to do the right thing by the kid and if it turns out that it really is your kid then fine, we'll make sure you've got all the access in the world. Hell if you want we'll file for fucking custody and your mom can look after it but don't get all invested in this girl. Hell I could pick some chick walking by and she'd be prettier than that thing."

Sid's hands curl into fists at his sides. He's never hit his father, not in anger, but now he is feeling like it might be a good time to take the first swing. He opens his mouth intending to tell his father to take back what he's said or else, knowing that even if he gets the first swing in that this will be a no win situation but an almost inaudible gasp from behind him steals his attention long enough for him to see Fern standing in the doorway with a plate in each hand, her eyes wide, her mouth open. The sound of plates crashing to the floor fills the sudden silence and then she is gone.

"Asshole," he breathes, shooting his father a look of utter and complete disdain and then he brushes by the man that only a moment ago seemed to fill the entire room with his presence as if he is nothing at all.

* * *

><p>"Whatever you heard doesn't matter."<p>

Fern hugs a pillow to her chest and does not turn at the sound of his voice behind her. She stares at the bare wall of his room, her emotions swinging violently from fury to despair. Tears slide down her cheeks and her entire body is shaking as if she has slipped into a state of shock.

She feels his hands on her knees before she realizes he is squatting in front of her and even then it is hard for her to make sense of the face staring up at her. It's like looking into one of those crazy mirrors in a fun house at a fair, through her tears he is short, fat, tall, thin. Taking one hand from the pillow she wipes at her tears and turns her face away.

"He'd really do it, wouldn't he?" she asks and hears his heavy sigh in response.

"I won't let him and it would never come to that so it doesn't matter," he promises, giving both of her knees a squeeze with his big hands. "I don't think like he does and I have never given a single thought to custody, I promise," he adds as she feels the mattress sink beside her and then his arm slide around her waist.

"But he's probably not the only one who thinks that way," she whispers, wanting very much to feel the comfort he is trying to convey but fighting with all of her might to maintain her straight back and her own space.

"Probably not," she hears him admit in a tone that sounds honestly regretful.

"So once they do the test...they'll try and take him," she says in a voice that is barely audible to her own ears. His arm tightens around her and she feels his cheek press against hers.

"It won't come to that. I promise," he repeats earnestly. Fern closes her eyes and draws a long, ragged breath before she can give voice to the words that have just formed in her mind.

"But it's not all up to you...is it?" She feels him stiffen and feels more than hears his shoulders droop as he sighs.

"Not all...but it won't happen. It's not going to be like that. I'll explain and by then...by then they'll see...it'll be different by then." She sneaks a peek at him, at the way he is hanging his head but there is a determination in the set of is features and it is an expression she always thought made him look very impenetrable out on the ice. Her heart tells her to trust him. Her head tells her not to. He looks up at her, worry for her, for them both, in his caramel coloured eyes. "I'll make you see, I'll make everyone see that I'm serious about doing this right," he tells her solemnly as he reaches up to brush his fingers along the line of her jaw. "And as for the other things he said...they're not true Fern."

She wants to argue, it is her intention not to give in to him but the intense look on his face and the sincere plea in his gaze stops her from bringing up the same old arguments about her being plain, about not being as glamorous or as skinny as all of the girls he could be dating. She feels her heels begin to skid down the slippery slope of allowing herself to believe that he, Sidney Crosby, might feel something for her and while her brain is screaming no her lips tremble as he presses a soft kiss to them that is assurance and pledge both and she lets herself slide another inch towards the abyss.


	19. Chapter 19

_The drama is about to get intense so buckle up!_

**Chapter 19**

"Thanks." It was obviously not the reaction the Pens net minder is expecting as he looks up at Sid with wide eyes. "I'm glad it's out there, we got past it. Everything's fine. But that's probably what you were going for so, thanks," Sid repeats, reaching out to put his hand on his friend's shoulder but the usually affable Frenchman bats his hand away.

"Ce qui est grand pour toi," MAF glares darkly at Sid who stares back, open mouthed with shock. He'd been expecting an admonition of some kind, certainly, but he'd also expected his friend to be happy that he and Fern were working things out. This hostile reaction was not something he has bargained on.

"My father came by, fucked things up, as usual" he began, hoping to deflect some of his friend's open hostility towards their favourite target, towards the man who leeches off his every paycheck and lives vicariously through them all.

"Yeah, that's awful, to have someone care about your future," Marc grumbles, looking down at his pads, focusing on the buckles. Sid stares at him, now both worried and curious as to the goalie's mood.

"Don't press it," Pascal suggests from nearby but it isn't advice that he takes.

"I thought you'd be happy that I'm trying. You told me to try, so that's what I'm doing," he points out, mostly to Marc but with a sideways glance at Dupers who only rolls his big eyes in response. "Okay so you guys all got that she's a good person right away and it took me a while to catch on. Sorry," he snaps, shaking his head. "Excuuuuuse me if I'm a little more paranoid than the rest of you."

"Fine, if you've _really_ figured it out, we're glad for you," Pascal declares, getting to his feet and offering his gloved hand for a fist bump. "Good for you." Feeling like this is what he'd expected, Sid squares his shoulders and turns back to Flower, who has finished buckling his pads but is still sitting with his head down, refusing to look up Sid, even when he knocks the goalie's pads with his stick.

"Que veux-tu me dire? Me veux-tu dire que je suis content pour toi?" Flower grumbles, looking up at him through his long, stick straight hair. "Qui ne vas pas arriver donc que je vous suggère de s'en remettre." Sid blinks, clearly taken aback by the vehemence in his friend's voice and at the sharp look the goalie gives him before he reaches for his shoulder pads, a clear act of dismissal that suggests that this conversation is over.

But then Sidney isn't one to give up that easily.

"What's your fucking problem?" he growls, leaning in and staring directly into Marc's brown eyes. Marc is a lover, not a fighter and he looks away, refusing to meet Sid's furious gaze, though his delicate jaw remains clenched and now his hands fist on his knees.

"You," he replies simply. Sid stares at him for a long moment and then tilts his head to the side and regards the slim young man as if he is a complete and utter stranger.

"Me? Are you still giving me shit about how this went down? Mister holier than thou? Are you still fucking lording it over me like fucking Tanger over there?" he asks, his own free hand curling into a fist that he knows that he will not use.

"No I'm not fucking lording...fuck you don't get it. It's all so fucking easy for you. Tout ce que tu veux, tu obtenes. Everything falls in your fucking lap. You don't even want this and you know...tu sais que je fais, que nous volouns cette chose." Sidney stands, staring into his friend's incensed gaze and is struck dumb.

_Of course_, he thinks, seeing the bright red spots of fury in Flower' cheeks, the sparks in his eyes. It's all completely clear to him now.

"You thought if I didn't come around to the idea...you thought she'd maybe hand my son over to you," he says quietly, a strange sour feeling in his stomach making his mouth dry at the thought. Not of Vero and Marc raising a child because he knows both of them would be amazing, kind and patient parents. It is just the idea of their raising _his child _that makes his stomach churn uncomfortably.

"Non," Marc replies immediately but something passes quickly behind his dark eyes and he lets out a long sigh. "Oui, perhaps, but not really, not Vero anyway," he mumbles, all of the fight having left his gaze, his always pale complexion turning a waxy pallor as he drops his head into his hands. "Il n'est pas juste."

Sid has no argument for the unjustness that MAF is feeling so all he can do is stand silently while the goalie fights to regain his composure in the charged silence that the room has fallen into. All of the other players are trying to get into their equipment and out of the room as quickly as possible without making eye contact with either their captain or their goaltender. It doesn't take long before they are the last two in the room.

"You will be a great father someday," Sid says quietly, lowering himself onto the bench beside Flower who is now studying the carpet between his skates, his hair still hanging in his eyes. He makes a sound in his throat that is purely Francaphone and Sid knows from hearing that sound coming from a number of his teammates that it is as much a curse as the f-bomb itself. "We'll make a deal with TK and Jordy, the next girl one of them knocks up, we'll flash some cash at her." Flower looks up at him through his hair and gives him a weary smile. "I'm sorry Flower, but it is kinda your fault I'm falling for her."

"Are you?" MAF asks quietly. Pursing his lips to stop from grinning which doesn't seem appropriate considering his friend's current mood, Sid nods.

"Like I said, it's taken me a while to see it but...yeah. I mean, I told my old man to shove it this morning so...I guess you could say she's growing on me."

"Hurt her...or the baby and I'll kill you," Marc says softly.

"Yeah, I know," Sid replies with a smirk, digging an elbow into the slight goalie's ribs.

"Don't forget it," Marc emphasizes with a smile that tells Sid he has earned a reprieve, for now.

* * *

><p>"You're getting <em>huge<em>," Vero exclaims, planting her hands on either side of Fern's belly and grinning as if she's been handed a prize.

"I know and I have to pee all the time and I am sooo tired," she explains with a sigh even as she smiles down at her protruding stomach.

"It'll _all_ be worth it," Vero says emphatically. Fern shrugs, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "I hear the big grumpy bear paid you a visit today," Vero adds in a whisper, slipping her arm companionably into Fern's and leading her to the seats at the front of the box. She looks down at the men circling the ice in warm up. They look tiny from this height but she can pick him out by his stride.

"I always had this idea of his father being the prototypical overbearing stage father," Fern begins without taking her eyes from the ice, "but I had no idea he would be so _mean_."

"I think he's bitter," Vero agreed, leaning over the edge to better keep an eye on her own man. "I think Sidney told Marc that Troy thinks that he owes him a living for quitting hockey because of Trina got pregnant."

"I thought he just wasn't good enough," Fern points out. Vero glances over her shoulder presumably to see who is close by and might overhear their conversation. "I mean wasn't he drafted the same year as Roy?"

"Maybe he doesn't want to see it that way," Vero offers quietly, "you know how fragile men's egos can be." The corner of Fern's mouth turns up in a cynical smile.

"That was _exactly_ the feeling I got from him," she says through clenched teeth, "that he didn't want his son getting trapped by some..._slut_." The word tastes as vile on her tongue as it was hard to hear that morning. Fern makes a face and turns away from the ice.

"You can't think that Sid feels that way?" Vero whispers. Fern shrugs a single shoulder as she raises her gaze to meet her friends'.

"I know it's what everyone is afraid of, his friends, his parents...probably Mario and every single member of the staff of this place," she sighs, sweeping her eyes around the arena. "I know that if I wasn't the one up the duff I'd hate the girl that trapped him. I'd assume the worst. Why shouldn't everyone hate me?" she asks, feeling beaten, her shoulders drooping.

"But you're not. _I_ know you're not," Vero insists, grabbing both of Fern's hands in her own and squeezing them until Fern looks up at her. "You know what I think? I think you care about him so much that you're willing to do something crazy like deny this bébé is his and you had better not, do you hear me? Don't you let his dad or anyone bully you, écoutez moi? You stand up for yourself."

"Easy for you to say," Fern says quietly, sending her friend a smile that is not ungrateful but does show how tired she is. "Look at you. You're so pretty and you have Marc," she adds in a low whisper.

"Oui, but I don't have un bébé sur le chemin. Now that is something I think earns you some negotiating room, tu ne crois pas?" It is hard not to smile in the face of such an earnest argument but Fern only sighs and shrugs her shoulders. "And besides, I think he is beginning to like the idea, hmm? Being un père"

"Yes," she sighs and looks over her shoulder towards where he is heading off the ice, "but is that enough?"

"Of course it is," Vero says lightly and Fern turns a grateful smile towards the pretty brunette.

"But it's not, that's just it," she sighs and then wraps her hands protectively around her stomach. "He's a business and I'm a bad investment and if he was the only shareholder, maybe...maybe he could buy in and somehow...," her voice trails off as she shrugs because there is no use allowing herself to think about what ifs. "But he's not. He doesn't get the only vote and you know what? I don't think I'd vote for me either."

"I'm glad to hear that," a voice that makes her cringe, that makes each and every hair on her body stand up on end, fills the room that is just beginning to fill with family members and friends and the sort of happy buzz that had been surrounding them goes silent as Troy emerges, his massive chest puffed out, his shrewd eyes focused on her alone. "It's good to know that you know that," he continues, looking pleased. "So now I'd like to ask, what will it take to get you to leave hmmm? How much do you want?"

"Don't," Vero hisses, grabbing for her hand even while Fern sadly smiles and shakes her head.

"I don't want anything, for myself," she adds carefully, looking up at the big man with the superior look on his face. "But for my son," she adds glancing down at her stomach and then back up at him with a more determined look on her face, "we can talk."

* * *

><p>"Look at him," TK mumbles, "like he doesn't know we lost," he added, hurling a wad of stick tape in Sid's direction. Sid easily deflects it. He knows that he should feel bad, after all, he's just sleep walked through an entire game, but then his mind is already on other things.<p>

"I think I'm going to ask to ask to meet her parents. I think that's the right thing to do," he says to no one in particular, and anyone who is listening.

"Jesus Creature, if I was her dad I'd whip your ass for knocking up my daughter. I'm not sure that's a good plan," Brooks laughs as he passes.

"Brooksy's got a point," Dupers nods, sitting back in his stall, down to his under-armour and winces as he rolls one shoulder. "You're used to being the ideal date that any parent would be glad to have their daughter bring home but in this case...I'm not sure I'd welcome you with open arms."

"Well I'd rather do it now than bumping into them at the hospital the day he's born," he shrugs and then grins very suddenly at the idea of the birth, of being there when his son his born.

"Wow, you're officially scaring me now," TK smirks across at him. "Next you're gonna tell us that you're gonna ask her old man if you can marry her while you're there."

"Don't worry Kennedy I'm not ready to jump off that cliff yet," he promises sincerely.

"Oh yeah, that'll make her old man even happier with you. How do you do sir, I knocked up your daughter and I'm _not_ gonna marry her. Yeah, you'll be a hit alright," Cookie chuckles and reaches down to muss Sid's hair as he passes by.

"Yeah Creature you better hope her dad isn't anything like Cookie or you'll be out for another six months with two broken knee caps," Johnny calls from his corner and then ducks when Cooker whips his towel at him.

"Well he won't have to worry about that because he won't be meeting her folks." The room falls quiet and every head turns towards the source of the booming voice. He searches his father's expression and feels a knot begin to form in the pit of his stomach. Troy looks smug and when he'd left him that morning his father had looked anything but smug.

"What have you done?" he asks quietly. He can hear his teammates shuffling uneasily around him. It's not the first time his father has made a scene in the room and he assumes it will not be the last. That does not mean he has to like it but it also doesn't mean he is willing to wait until they are alone before he finds out exactly why his father is looking like the cat that ate the canary.

"Solved your problem for you," Troy says in the kind of syrupy voice that suggests he's proud of himself but that he knows his son is going to be less than happy with him.

"I don't have a problem, _right now_," Sid says slowly as he gets to his feet. On skates he can be eye to eye with his father.

"No, you're right, you don't now, because she's gone." Sid blinks.

"Gone? What do you mean, _gone_?" he asks between clenched teeth.

"I mean she's gone, for good. She's seen the light, or the colour of your money, taken the payout I offered her and she's on her way out of the city. You don't have to worry about her anymore." He says it like it's a good thing, a thing that should be celebrated. He says it like he's done something good, something he should be congratulated for.

There is a ringing in Sid's ears and a veil of red slides down over his eyes.

"I'll fucking kill you," he growls, his hands lifting to grab hold of the collar of his father's shirt, twisting it in his fingers until he can feel his father's wind pipe against the back of his fist.

"No," Troy smiles, but there is a menace behind it and his eyes glow like he's actually enjoying this, "you'll thank me. I just saved your life." He tries to speak, tries to say that all Troy's done is ruin his life but all that comes out is a feral growl as he twists his hand, tightening the noose.

"This isn't going to solve it." Predictably it's Duper whose hands pull him back, stop him from choking his father out. "C'mon, let's get dressed. Maybe we can catch her. She's not going to leave without her stuff."

* * *

><p>"Don't do this, please." Vero tries one more time as Fern slides her suitcase out of the back of the big black SUV.<p>

"You heard the man, the only other option I have is to hand over my child. _My_ child," she says, checking the ticket she'd printed off before zipping up her purse.

"Sid would never let him do that," Vero insists but some of the fervour has gone out of her voice.

"Maybe not now but…c'mon, he's not in love with me and his dad's right, he's never going to be. Some other girl is going to come along and he's still going to want his son and she'll be the stay at home mom and he has all the money…what chance do I have against that?" she smiles in what she hopes is a brave sort of way. She's been doing her best not to cry, not in front of Vero and definitely not in front of Troy. "I've been kidding myself, he has no real feelings for me V. I mean, he said I'm okay, not that I'm pretty or beautiful. I'm okay and that's all I'm ever going to be to him."

"You don't' know that for sure," Vero says quietly. "People in arranged marriages can fall in love after awhile." It's an attempt at encouragement but not even a good one but it makes Fern smile.

"My parents never lied to me, never told me I was going to meet prince charming and become a princess, not like you. I was raised to be practical and this is me being practical. This is me saving myself from heartbreak. Now give me a hug," she says softly, putting herself into the slim brunette's arms and hugging her as close as her swollen belly would allow.

"Take care of yourself okay?" Vero whispers

"I will," Fern promises before she releases her and turns to get her bag.

"You have our number. If you need anything, anything, you call and me and Marc will be there," she adds seriously.

"Thanks," Fern smiles, knowing that she won't do anything of the sort, "but V…please, even if he begs…."

"Your secret's safe with me," Vero sighs, pursing he lips and turning an imaginary key in front of them before tossing it over her shoulder.


	20. Chapter 20

_Good news Tanger's back practicing with the boys. Bad news is Sid is back to seeing his specialist. Let's have good thoughts that he gets better soon._

**Chapter 20**

A four game road trip should have taken his mind off of her but coming home to an empty house re-opens the wound and as he stand alone in the dark staring at her empty bedroom with the only sound that of his own breathing, he thinks that it feels like the wound is fresh and bleeding. He walks into the room, past the gaping empty closet and sits down on the edge of the bed. Picking up a pillow he catches a faint trace of her perfume. Looking around, as if he might be caught doing something embarrassing he presses his face into the pillow and drags in a lungful of her light, fruity scent.

It is the only reminder he has left of her, aside from her robin's egg blue diner's uniform, the only thing left in her closet. When he'd got home that night it had been on the floor, as if she had accidentally left it behind. A trip to the diner soon threw cold water on any hopes he'd had of bringing her home. She'd already called in her notice.

True to his father's words, Fern is gone.

Sid's lips curls up into a contemptuous smile at the memory of his father's last test message, congratulating him on his 'feisty' play on the road. The truth is, over the last few days, it has taken an enormous amount of will power not to physically rip someone's, _anyone's_, head from their shoulders. It's lucky that the media has chosen to think that he's back with a vengeance though the truth is that his mind is not on the ice though he allows his father and most of his teammates to think that he is pouring himself into his daily routine and leaving it all out on the ice. Only Marc and Pascal know different.

He cannot hide his restlessness from Dupers with whom he shares a room on the road. As for Flower, Sid is almost certain he is withholding something but if he is, the quiet goalie is admitting to nothing which of course means that he is aiming the blame for all of this mess directly at Sid.

Unfortunately Sid himself is not finding assigning blame as straight forward. It is easy to direct the blame all onto his father's wide shoulders. He, after all, is the one who levelled the threats and wrote the cheque; the enormous cheque with far bigger numbers on it than any she had been offered before.

But then again, she is the one who took it.

Troy is quick to point out that everyone has a price and he has merely been the one successful in finding hers where everyone else failed and there is a little part of Sidney that is forced to admit to himself that this must be the case. He has also begun to wonder if he would have ever authorized an offer so large because he knew, in his heart, that he didn't really want to find her number.

That there was a number and she has taken the cheque feels like a betrayal.

He lies back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling. He had already come to understand that he'd grown attached to her but it has taken her absence to teach him that what he has been feeling is more than a protective kind of friendship. There was a girl in New York, an encounter endured at the insistence of his teammates. If she had a name he doesn't remember asking for it and as he stares up at the blank white ceiling now he cannot even recall the features of her face. What he does recall, vividly, is what he felt the entire time he was with this stranger. He'd felt like he was committing an infidelity, that he was cheating on Fern. He feels disgusted with himself now as he lies in her bed, her scent lingering in his nostrils, her features crystal clear in his imagination.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to the ghost of her, the sense of her that lingers in the big empty house. They are the words he knows he would say if he had been just two minutes sooner, if he could have caught her before she'd gone. They are not enough, he has come to realize; not enough to reverse the damage he inflicted on an innocent girl that night last spring. They are not nearly enough to encompass all the new feelings he's been discovering as the realization dawns on him that not only is there a chance that he will not see his son born, which in and of itself twists like a rusty knife in his guts, but that he might never see _her_ again. "I got so used to your face," he whispers to the ghost, thinking of the way her dark eyes would look out at him from the dark frames of her glasses, one minute making him feel like he was wearing a crown and the next like his halo had slipped down past his knees. "More than okay," he adds hoarsely, one hand curling into a fist that he drums against the mattress, "you're more than okay to me."

* * *

><p>"You sure hun? You're welcome to join us," her mother entreats as her father slides her coat over her shoulders. He does not look at his daughter who sits curled at the end of the couch with its frayed cushions and faded arms.<p>

"No, that's okay mom. There's one of those Jane Austen movies I like on. You two go," she insists, pulling an afghan around her shoulders and wincing, just a little, when one of their cats jumps onto her.

"Well don't stay up too late," her mother sighs, giving her one of those looks that's half apology, half parental concern. Fern returns her mother's look with a genuine smile.

"I won't, I promise. Have fun you two," she adds, knowing the moment they are out the door her dour father will begin yet another tirade about his wayward daughter that her mother will have to listen to, nod in the right places and even agree with him even though her own excitement at becoming a grandmother trumps all of his predictions that Fern will now never find a suitable man and they will end up supporting her and the child out of his income.

They are hardly made of money, not that they have ever denied her anything she's needed. They've always been able to stretch to the essentials and once in a very long while something just a little bit more. Not that she feels deprived. She's always thought she'd gotten lucky with her parents. After a couple of foster homes, not being slapped or yelled at was as good as getting taken out for an ice cream.

They did; however, do disappointed rather well she thinks as her father glowers at her from behind his glasses.

She wouldn't call him a miser but her father is a careful man, a man who knows the value of everything and will not pay a penny more for anything than he thinks that it is worth. That will not, she knows, stop him from spoiling his grandson when the time comes. He will, she knows, be pleased not to have to compete with the likes of Troy Crosby when it comes to buying toys. That kind of competition, she thinks with a smile, would drive her father to distractin.

She thinks about the cheque with all of its' zeroes in her jewellery box. After her son is born she will take it to the bank and deposit it and then transfer nearly half of it to her parents. Maybe then her father's permanent frown will finally turn upside down and he will take her mother on that trip to Italy she's always pined for. The other half she'll keep but most of it will go into a savings account, one her son won't be able to access until he's at least 18. What's left, she has already decided, will go to Mario Lemieux's charity in his name. Maybe Sidney will know, maybe not but either way it will salve her conscious somewhat. Accepting the cheque has been the lowest point since that notorious evening that seems so long ago now. It wasn't just taking the payment in return for her absence that is not sitting well with her, it is the giving in, the admission of defeat that weighs heavy on her soul.

Picking up the remote she turns up the sound on the beginning of the movie. The vistas of the grassy hillocks of England would normally pull her in and she would get lost in the familiar dialogue, the empire waist dresses and the frock coats but tonight her mind roams. Those few magical moments when she almost believed that he cared about her make her feel like Marianne betrayed by Willoughby; not that he didn't care for her, just that he could never lower himself as far as to permanently attach himself to someone his father and manager didn't think was going to damage his squeaky clean reputation.

"You'll call if you need anything." Fern looks up, blinks as she focuses on her mother's face, and shakes her head.

"What could I need mom?" she asks, holding up a box of cracker jacks and nudging the very large glass of ice tea on the coffee table in front of her.

"Well I'll have my phone on vibrate, just in case," her mother assures her, giving her that look as if she's begging for Fern to give a reason, any reason, to stay. Imagine wanting out of a night of sitting with her father listening to political pundits spewing hot air and blowing smoke up each other asses. As much as she would like to help her mother out, a few hours of having her not fussing is something Fern is sure that she needs.

"I'll let you know if I do," she promises, much to her mother's chagrin. She listens to them leave, as she rips open the box of caramel corn and settles back into the couch for a few hours of almost peace, the shy awkwardness of a young Hugh Grant and the gallantry of Alan Rickman.

* * *

><p>"Come out." It's not really a request but he ignores their tone and instead of stepping out of his door Sid leaves it open behind him and retreats into his house forcing his two teammates who are standing on the front step to follow him inside.<p>

"You can't sit in the dark all by yourself. It's not natural," TK insists, dogging him as he makes his way back to the kitchen. He is neither hungry nor thirsty but he knows it's the first place they will go.

"Maybe I have a headache," he suggests nonchalantly.

"Do you?" Jordan asks, his blonde head popping up above the door of the fridge.

"No," he replies in a tone dripping in sarcasm, "but I could. You don't know."

"So you've got no reason to stay in," TK grins hopefully, like it's a done deal.

"Other than I don't want to go out you mean?"Sid counters, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Oh c'mon. It'll be fun, you know you want to," Jordy grins, popping open one beer and handing another to Kennedy. He offers one to Sid who shakes his head.

"Not really. Remember that's how I ended up in this mess," he reminds his friends who then stare back at him quizzically.

"I thought your dad bought you out of the mess?" Kennedy says looking honestly confused.

"Yeah," Jordy chimes in, "I thought it was like, good riddance? I mean, you didn't really want to be a dad already when there's so many fish in the sea to catch." Sometimes he honestly wonders if his friends know him at all as he stares back at them, stunned.

"She _was_ living here," he points out, waiting for dumb and dumber to catch up. It's not that he doesn't appreciate their support but at this moment they are more like Troy's cheering section than his own.

"Yeah but that wasn't, y'know, serious, _right_?" TK asks using a tone that makes it plain he wants his captain to tell him he hasn't gone over to the dark side.

"I want to find her and bring her back. I just don't know where to start. Is that serious enough for you?" He looks from one wide pair of blue eyes to an equally shocked pair of dark eyes staring back at him and shrugs.

"Well hell, why didn't you just fuckin' say so?" Kennedy grins and slams his beer down on the table and rubs his hands together. "Which way did the little bitch go when she left? I'm like a fucking hound dog when it comes to huntin' bitches down!"

* * *

><p>The pain starts as a dull pressure in the small of her back. She rolls over onto her other side and curls around her body pillow. She slips back into the dream she'd been having, a picnic on the side of a hill complete with red check table cloth and good white wine in plastic wine glasses. It is another dream of him, as hard as she tries to make it be about Alan Rickman, he is reading her sonnets and she is lying with her head in his lap, listening to Rickman's voice but it is Sidney's pale complexion and complex gold green eyes that she looks up into. He strokes her hair with his free hand and she relaxes against his massive thighs and watches his full pink lips move as he speaks. When the pain comes again it is like the twisting of a knife in her ribs and she wakes with a gasp, her hand clutched to her side.<p>

"You little bastard," she hisses through her teeth, rubbing her hand over the spot where she assumes her son has tried to kick his way out. Taking slow breaths she waits for the sharp pain to ease before she lies back down. Her eyes are just beginning to droop when the ache in her back makes her readjust her position again. That only last a few minutes before she is sitting up on the edge of the bed, cursing quietly as she slides her feet into a pair of warm fuzzy slippers and reaches for her robe.

Rubbing the small of her back as best she can, Fern pads across her room and heads for the bathroom. She is half way down the hall when she hears the creak and groan of the garage door beginning to move and the familiar rumble of her father's Volvo station wagon in the drive.

While she runs water into the sink, waiting for it to get cold, she listens to the garage door roll up and back down again and then the scrape and click of a key in the lock followed by her parents hushed voices. She smiles at her reflection when realizes that they are arguing in whispers and wonders how two people with such opposing political views could ever have stayed married this long.

She lifts a cup to her lips and closes her eyes in bliss as the cool water slides down her throat. Her parents have reached the top of the stairs and she hears her mother shushing her father and she smiles as she puts the cup down on the counter.

The next sound is that of breaking glass as the cup shatters on the floor of the bathroom. She clutches her stomach with one hand and the edge of the counter with her other. The pain makes her see stars and almost forces her to her knees. This, she knows immediately is not just a kick. Something is wrong, very wrong.

"Mommy!" she calls out, trying to catch her breath.

"Fernie what are you doing up dear you should be in bed and…," her mother rounds the corner and her reflection appears in the mirror just as a warm gush of warm water runs down the insides of her thighs and onto the floor. "Oh god Jamie, call nine one one."


	21. Chapter 21

_So it turns out I'm not putting you out of your misery...yet_

Chapter 21

"It's called cervical insufficiency which is a fancy way of saying that the cervix has thinned out or is dilating prematurely. The good news is that mom has made it this far. In a lot of cases this sort of genetic insufficiency usually results in miscarriage so mom's done really good to get here and we can slow this down and keep an eye on how things progress. The bad news is that your water breaking means that you _have_ gone into pre-term labour." She feels her mother's grip on her hand tighten but she can't take her eyes off the drip that is delivering the drug into her arm that is supposed to slow down the contractions she's been having.

"It's too early," her mother tells the doctor in his mint green scrubs in the sort of hushed tone that suggests that she either believes her daughter is not or is incapable of listening. As if being in labour prohibits her from being able to take part in a conversation about her own care.

"It's a little early," the doctor agrees in a voice that she knows is meant to induce calm, "but we are usually very successful in cases of premature rupture of membranes of delaying the inevitable for a few days and during that time we will be keeping a close eye on mom and baby and we'll be giving mom some corticosteroids which will help in supporting the baby's lungs so we'll get a better chance of having a good outcome. So what we need mom to do now is rest and let us look after the rest, okay?" The last warm fuzzy feel good statement is for her as the doctor pats her hand in what she assumes is meant to be a comforting sort of way. She gives him and his clip board a half a smile and then watches him go out and hand the clip board to a nurse hovering in the hallway.

"Do you hear that Fernie? You're gonna be fine," her mother says with a smile that goes nowhere near filling her eyes that are brimming over with tears. They are tears of fear, she knows because she cried them all the way to the hospital. Somehow the smell of bleach and the sterile surroundings, the pastel blue walls and the crisp white bed sheets have done their work. She is no longer terrified of imminent doom and her pulse is beginning to slow.

"Actually he _didn't_ say that mom. What he said is there's some stuff they can do to make it better," she corrects her mother quietly, her attention having returned to the slow drip of the liquid running into her arm. "He was being intentionally vague about it. It's what they do so they don't have to promise they'll make you better but they don't scare the shit out of you either," she adds with a sigh.

"You're being morose Fern," her mother says with a sight quaver in her voice. She smiles. She knows her mother would like to lecture her but any show of strength at this point is earning her brownie points.

"Am I?" she looks over at her mother and it is her turn to give her mother's hand a comforting squeeze. "I guess I'm just tired, sorry."

"It's this boy isn't it?" her mother whispers, looking around the room as if suddenly a host of curtain-twitchers are going to show up at just that moment to listen in on them.

"Boy? Hmmm," Fern make a non committal noise, closes her eyes and turns her head away. Her father has been focused in like a laser on the fact that she has not spoken about the father of the baby. He has asked, more than once, if they will be meeting this 'paragon of the community' as he has taken to calling him. For her part Fern has said nothing, deflected the questions and changed the subject.

"We're going to be here a while hun," her mother reminds her, patting her hand as if she needs to do so to get her daughter's attention.

"I don't know what you mean mom," she sighs and then feigns a yawn, hoping her mother will do as the doctor suggested and let her rest.

"Well I don't think it's the virgin birth," her mother hisses in an uncharacteristically direct way that almost makes Fern smile.

"No mom I didn't think you did," she sighs again and this time a real yawn escapes, as if thinking about sleep has made her crave it.

"So this boy...," her mother begins, and then at a sharp look from her daughter rolls her eyes and shrugs. "Okay, this man. Should I be letting him know? I mean, presumably you haven't exactly been planning a life together but would he want to know about, y'know, this?" her mother asks, a quick glance taking in the hospital bed, drip and paper gown. Fern looks down at the identity bracelet they put on her arm when she was brought in so that her mother won't see the sheen of tears she refuses to shed over him. There was a time she would have been almost sure that he would have wanted to know but now she shrugs one shoulder and picks at a loose thread on the edge of the crisp white sheet.

"Probably not mom, no."

"Well is there anyone you want to call?" her mother asks, digging her own phone out and offering it to her daughter, "work or a friend?"

* * *

><p>"What the fuck!" He swings his stick against the wall and watches it break in his hand. White dots dance in front of his eyes. "What the fuck was that?" he snaps again, tossing his helmet across the dressing room.<p>

"You practically walked into it," Pascal says softly, laying a hand on his captain's shoulder. He shrugs it off and drops down onto his spot on the bench.

"You can't expect _not_ to get hit." Sid looks at Dupes skates and nods, once. "You can't expect the whole league to treat you like you've got a fucking force field around you unless of course you want to Scott to wrap you up in fucking bubble wrap before you go out on the ice," he adds pointedly. Sid turns his gaze up to meet his friend's solemn one and does not answer. He doesn't need to. His unhappy expression speaks volumes.

"I _just_ got back," he says slowly and deliberately.

"We know. No one's disputing how much you want to play but you can't flip out every fucking time someone hits you," Pascal adds quietly. The rest of the guys file in quietly. Every last one of them avoids his gaze. He knows they're all thinking the same thing; he's having a prima-donna moment and they want to be able say they never saw it; all except one.

Flower is looking down the bench at him wearing an expression of disappointment mixed with derision.

"You can't be mad at her for taking what she's due," the goalie says quietly. "A half a million, it's not much. She'd get more if she took you to court. You must know that." As usual MAF cuts to the quick of the matter, bypassing the garnish and heading straight for the steak and Sid hangs his head, clearly stung. He was angry with her for taking it but Marc was right, as usual, she could have, probably even _should_ have asked for more.

"She probably thinks I put him up to it," he says weakly. It's a thought that's been plaguing him over the last twenty four hours; that she must think he sent his father in this one last time to try and buy her off, even after everything he'd said.

"Do you blame her if she does? You haven't been exactly straight forward with the poor girl," Pascal points out cautiously. For once he doesn't argue, he merely nods and then shrugs.

"But she's gone right? I mean...I can get a private detective or something...but I don't want to force myself on her when she thinks I'm just doing it to take the kid," he says quietly, digging the toe of his stick into the carpet in between his skate blades.

"So that's it, you're just gonna give up claim to your first son? Just like that?" Johnny asks from his spot down the other end of the bench. "Excuse me but who the fuck are you and what have you done with my hard headed never fucking say die Captain?" Sid affords him a grateful smile.

"Not to mention an adorable piece of tail," Nealer offers with a wink.

"Jesus Creature, what do you need me to do, get Talbo on the fucking phone to tell you what to do here?" Pascal laughs as a large wad of hockey taps strikes the side of Sid's head.

"I don't even know where to start looking," he sighs, untangling the sticky tape from his sweaty hair.

"Fuck man, I've been tellin' you to watch fucking CSI!" Kennedy barks, slamming the blade of his stick down on the floor. "You're not gonna laugh at my CSI road trip marathons after this. Start with fuckin' finding out from payroll where the cheque got cashed and then go in that fuckin' bank and tell them you're Sidney fuckin' Crosby and you need to find her," he adds enthusiastically.

"Yeah, and when the bank manger's panties have melted and you've given her my number, you'll have an address and then maybe she calls the cops on you and maybe she won't but at least you'll know," Nealer smirks and reaches over to give his shoulder a shove.

* * *

><p>"I got here as soon as I could, is everything okay?" The familiar voice drags her out of a slumber and when she opens her eyes Veronique is standing at the end of the bed, wide eyed but otherwise perfectly coiffed and manicured in violet cashmere sweater set, slim-fitting jeans and knee high brown wedge heeled boots, like something off the cover of a Coldwater Creek catalogue.<p>

"Thanks for coming. I know it must have been quite a drive but," Fern replies, bypassing the question and reaching for her friend's hand, "I couldn't take one more minute of my mom fussing."

"Oh," Vero glances around and then her eyes get even wider but the expression of shocked concern devolves into an amused grin. "What did they say? Did they disown you? Did you show them the cheque?"

"No and noooo," Fern sighs, trying to drag herself up onto her elbows. "They'd probably think I'd sold my soul to the devil if they saw that but no, they're both very excited...I mean...as long as everything goes okay."

"Yeah," Vero's gaze strays to the wide belt around the widest part of her swollen stomach and then up to the monitors tracking mother and son's heart beats. "It all looks pretty official. Are you scared?" She's been doing her best to be calm, the way the doctor tells her is best and her mother has been flustered enough for the both of them. But now, with no one but the one person who knows exactly what's going on, she lets go of the last scrap of control and lets the tears fall. "Oh...oh mon ami, que c'est, le laisser aller. It's okay to be scared. I'd probably have been in a straightjacket by now," Vero whispers, leaning over the safety rail and doing her best to hug her friend. "I'm sure it will be fine. Je suis certain que tout ira bien."

"I was so sure I could do it but now...," Fern leans into her friends arms and sobs.

"You will, of course you will. This is just a...un hoquet...a hiccup?" Vero waits for a correction but Fern only smiles weakly up at her. "I'm certain all new mothers think it will be impossible."

"You wouldn't," Fern declares quite suddenly but finds as she says it that it feels as if it must be true. "You'd be ready. Crib, clothes, room, everything would be waiting for him." Vero's face colours as she says it and she can see the young brunette picturing the baby's room and wonders if the walls are blue with fluffy white clouds or yellow with Kanga, Roo, Piglet and Owl all watching over the crib.

"Mais...ce n'est pas grave...doesn't matter what I would do. You'll do things your own way," Vero suggests but the vision is still in her eyes as she reaches to close her hands comfortingly over Fern's. "And remember you have the money to get started. You can buy anything you want," she adds encouragingly.

"Yeah," Fern sighs, thinking about sharing the room in her parents' small bungalow with a crying baby, every midnight feed on her own in the darkness, every diaper, every all those baby clothes to clean and fold... "Or you could. You and Marc want this. You would do this so much better than me," she insists, a burden lifting from her shoulders. A light shines from the slim beauty's eyes but her lips press into a thin, determined line and she shakes her head.

"Non. Il n'est pas possible. This is your baby. You've carried him all this time and made the very courageous decision to keep him. Non...it wouldn't be right," Vero says quietly and Fern wonders how much she's trying to talk herself out of this as she does.

"Or you two would be great parents and I can give the cheque back and I can forget all of this ever happened and go on with my life," she suggest firmly, moving her hand to top Vero's. "Don't say no. Talk to Marc. I think this might be the best solution for everyone, including _him_," she adds, glancing towards the belt around her stomach and listening to the beeping of the monitors behind her head.

* * *

><p>"Not cashed?" he looks across the desk at the man in the suit that doesn't quite fit with the tie that looks a little too tight and the glasses that perpetually seem to be slipping down his nose and leans forward. "Are you...very sure?"<p>

"Yes," the man answers emphatically as if Sidney is testing him. "While a cheque that size is undoubtedly going to be held for clearance for a number of business days, there is no evidence that we have been contacted digitally in regards to its accuracy." Sid smiles and nods as if he's followed all of the accountant's explanation but he is still turning those first words over in his mind.

"So it hasn't been cashed?" he asks again, to which the small man's reply is a twitch of one nostril and the purse of his thin lips.

"Would you like to cancel the transaction Mr. Crosby?" he asks slowly and quite deliberately, now as if speaking to a third grader.

"Nooo," Sidney answers carefully, considering doing so and then deciding against it, "but is there any way to contact the branch it gets cashed at...as you said digitally and tell me where and when it's cashed?" The accountant turns to look at the HD LED screen in front of him, tilts his head to one side and seems to consider the rows of numbers that represent Sidney's various accounts.

"Yes I'm sure that's plausible," the man says slowly, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head to the other side much like a robin does when listening for worms moving unseen in the soil beneath its talons.

"So you'll make a note to let me know when it's cashed?" he prompts, feeling a rush of energy for the first time in the last twenty four hours.

"I _can_ do that, yes," the accountant says, making it clear that he feels put upon by the request.

"Thanks Travis." He places his hand firmly on the man's shoulder only to have him look down at it in disgust and then up at him with an impatient look. Sid does his best to hide his amusement until he's half way out the door where he almost runs directly into Flower who is standing in the middle of the hallway, wearing a very serious expression as he stares down at the phone in his hand.

"Ça va?" he asks, repeating the same gesture with a different result. Marc looks up at him, stunned, blinks and then whets his bottom lip with his tongue before he replies.

"Mon ami...I think we should talk."


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

It was a long drive.

He spent the first half of it arguing with Marc while he vehemently denied that this had been his goal all along. The rest of the ride Marc either played devil's advocate or they'd sat in a sort of charged silence, both blaming the other for the predicament they were in.

He knows his own part in all of this mess is far from innocent but he had thought they had been turning a corner when Troy stuck his size twelve's in. He accepts that looking at it from the outside in that he might not look like he is in control of his own destiny and as much as he wants to he knows he can't blame her for jumping at the first opportunity to wipe the slate clean and rid herself of this whole disaster.

He is reminding himself with each step he takes down the hospital's sterile hallways that she has reasons for offering up their child to Marc and V and that he will get nowhere by judging her for acting out of fear. He reminds himself that she did not run to the nearest bank with the cheque his father handed her and that is to her credit. Still, his teeth grind together as he sullenly follows behind Marc who bobs his head as he passes nurses and orderlies, smiling at each and every one of them while he, himself, keeps his head down. He is in no mood to smile and sign autographs as if he hasn't a care in the world and he knows too well the consequences of taking out his personal issues on innocent bystanders to chance so much as making eye contact with anyone when he is in this kind of mood.

Besides, he is doing his best to come up with just the right words to say when he sees her. Not that he's very good with words. If he was he wouldn't be skulking down this brightly lit hospital corridor with his guts churning like he's waiting to hit the ice for the third period of game seven and they're down by two.

"This one, I think," Marc says, looking down at his phone and then up at the number on the closed door of the room. Sid's heart hammers like a jackhammer in his chest. He lifts his hand and presses it over the spot where the unruly organ feels like it's trying to chisel its way out.

"Jeezus," he wheezes, "feels like we're heading for overtime in game seven now." Marc affords him a sympathetic smile before lifting his hand to knock softly on the door. The sound of a cat being slowly strangled answers his knock and the two young men exchange an indecisive but worried look.

"Nooooooo, it's toooo soooon." It's her voice. He doesn't need to hear more to reach past Marc to twist the door handle and push open the door to find her rolling her head back and forth on the pillow, her dark hair affixed to her sweat soaked forehead and cheeks, her teeth clenched.

"You have to push," the nurse holding one of her hands says in that matronly way that's supposed to make you listen to her. Fern grimaces and shakes her head again.

"No, too soon. Noooo," she pants with the obvious effort of doing the exact opposite of what her body is asking her to do.

"The baby's coming, right now. You're only making it worse on both of you by doing what you're doing," the woman in the blue scrubs that suddenly appears from beneath the sheet draped over Fern's midsection says patiently and with a thin lipped smile. "He's gonna tear you from stem to stern and then where will you be?" she adds, placing a blood soaked glove on Fern's knee. "Now, c'mon, give me a good push." Fern stares daggers at the doctor and he believes, right in that moment, that she will get up off of the bed and rip the doctor stem from stern and he feels kind of proud of her.

He steps up to where the nurse is at her side and reaches for the hand that she is holding. With a grateful smile she gives up her place and he slides his hand over Fern's warm one.

"Hey, now listen to me. You have to focus. It's gonna be beautiful, you're beautiful but you have to do this. You have one job to do right now and that's to breathe and push, okay?" She looks up at him like she's never seen him before or maybe she doesn't think that he's real and he smiles down at her before lowering his lips to the white knuckles of the hand that is currently trying to crush his. "Just breathe," he tells her softly, "and try to relax and everything is going to be fine."

"You're...but...?" She turns her head to look at where Vero had been. Marc has gathered his girlfriend into his arms and she is looking back at them, wide eyed as she anxiously chews on her bottom lip.

"We can talk about all that later," he promises her, softly, his heart swelling in his chest as he looks down at her. "Right now put all of that stuff out of your mind and concentrate on doing this okay? Everything else can just wait. You got me?" His gaze searches hers and after a moment of her studying his face she nods, just once. "Good. Now, when the doctor says push, you give it all you've got, okay?"

* * *

><p>"I can't...I can't anymore," she gasps, dropping back down onto the bed and closing her eyes. She can feel the sweat running down her back and between her breasts like rivulets and the sheets beneath her feel soaked, whether with her sweat or her blood she can't be sure. What she does know is that she is bone weary and she feels like she is being split in two. "I can't do it anymore," she whispers to the man who is gently brushing her hair back from her face.<p>

"Just a couple more pushes and we'll be there," the doctor promises from between her thighs. Fern gnashes her teeth. When she gets up off of this bed...if she ever gets up off of this bed, she is going to murder that self important bitch with her bare hands.

"Easy for her to say," she says under her breath and opens one eye to see his boyish grin shining down on her like a ray of mid-summer sunshine, warm and golden. "This is your fault," she adds, through clenched teeth, "you have a fat head."

"Can't argue that," he grins good naturedly, "I think I have the biggest helmet on the team," he adds with a wink. She almost laughs but winces as yet another contraction rips through her body and steals her breath away.

"Come on Fern, one big push, you can do it," the doctor encourages and Fern aims another glower in her direction.

"Couple more pushes and you can rest," Sidney promises in her ear, his arm sliding up behind her back to support her as she bears down. It is no longer just sweat that slides down her cheeks as she cries out with the effort but tears of pain, of exhaustion both mental and physical.

"I can't, I can't," she cries, falling back against his arm and panting.

"You can," he whispers and she feels the brush of his lips against her forehead. "You're being really brave."

"Are you kidding?" she breathes, trying to think if she's ever been in this much pain in her entire life. "I'm scared to death."

"Good, then that makes two of us," he tells her in his most earnest voice, his gaze holding hers. She blinks, wanting to look away and hide the hope that she feels leaking into her face from him but she can't. "Just for the record," he adds, unblinking, "what Troy...what my dad did...I didn't know anything about it and I swear I had nothing to do with it." She looks into the depths of cafe latte eyes and thinks it must be the pain but for the first time she doesn't think he is hiding something from her.

"Okay," she whispers and the corners of his full, bubble gum soft lips turn up. "I believe you but that doesn't mean he didn't mean every single threat he made," she tells him and his smile fades and his eyes darken.

"I can make threats too," he promises, his eyes going cold, his expression grim. In this moment he looks like the Sidney she met that night in the club, not the one she thinks is underneath. For a moment she forgets her own pain and reaches up to run her fingers along the strong line of his jaw. He closes his eyes and leans into her hand. "I won't let him take what's mine," he whispers before those long, black lashes flutter open again. "I won't let _anyone_ take what's mine."

For just a moment she feels the tingling up and down her spine of hearing the words that she knows she's dreamed of hearing and knowing in her heart that he means them and then her entire body goes rigid, as if struck by lightning and she screams. It's as if the sound is a handful of razorblades cutting their way up her throat while a hatchet is brought down on her stomach and an axe is driven up between her thighs. The world is black and she can't even hear the sound of her own screaming. Only a buzzing in her ears and then...silence.

It's as if the sound has been turned down on the entire room and every one in it is moving in slow motion. She can feel his arm still supporting her but she doesn't think, even if she turns her head, she will see him. All she can see is the nurses and doctor with their heads down around something. Something she thinks should be crying or making some kind of sound.

Maybe they only do that in movies, she tells herself as she watches and waits. Maybe it takes longer than you'd think to clear the airways. But maybe...but maybe...

"There's something wrong," she whispers and feels his arm tighten around her.

"He's a preemie, we knew that," he whispers back as if he's reminding himself more than telling her.

"But he's not crying," she insists, barely forcing her words past a ball of emotion quickly filling her throat. "Shouldn't he be crying? Why isn't he crying?"

"Any minute now," he tells her, but when she looks up into his face there is no conviction. There is only worry and he doesn't look down at her, only stares at the backs of the hospital staff crowded around the tiny table with the bright light on the other side of the room.

"Why isn't he crying?" It isn't her voice though she thinks that it should be. The voice comes from somewhere behind her and for a moment she thinks it is only in her head until she remembers that there are other people, other interested parties in the room. She looks back over her shoulder, wondering that she can without falling to pieces, and sees Vero cuddled into Marc's side, both of them staring at the same thing with the same expression of anxiety on their faces.

When she turns back the crowd of blue and green scrubs are moving towards the door, pushing the cart. She tries to sit up, but can't.

"Where are they going? What's going on?" she asks, reaching uselessly forward.

"He's in good hands. He's having a little trouble breathing so they're gonna take him upstairs to the NICU and get him some oxygen and keep a close eye on him. Mom, you'll be able to go up in a while," one of the nurses says calmly from behind her mask. "Do you want to follow him dad?" she asks, turning to Sid who is still staring at the now closed door through which they've just taken their son.

* * *

><p>He knows, instinctively, that this is one of those damned if you do and damned if you don't moments. There are things he needs to know, to talk about with Fern but on the other hand...<p>

"Yes," he says and lets go of Fern with only a quick, half hearted apologetic look over his shoulder as he follows the nurse in scrubs that he supposes are supposed to be cheerful, with colourful cartoon dogs and cats playing together.

He's grateful that neither Marc nor Vero follow him and he feels another pang of regret for leaving Fern with them and hopes that he's done enough by being here, by being with her through this that she knows that they can't give up their son to someone else, not even his good friend. He hopes Marc will be able to explain it to V.

His shirt sticks to his skin and he suddenly feels cold as he follows the nurse into the elevator. He's glad she doesn't try to make small talk. He doesn't know what he'd say. His emotions swing wildly from elation to gut churning fear and his heart is racing.

When the mechanical doors of the elevator open he has to force one foot in front of the other to follow the nurse down the hallway, past the nursery window lined by friends and families with teddy bears and shiny balloons welcoming the newborns to their birthdays. His heart aches in his chest, wishing he could be happily handing out cigars to his teammates, but he puts his head down and follows the nurse into another room, a dimly lit one filled with anxious faces bent over brightly pods and surrounded by the mechanical sounds of life being supported.

"Here he is," the nurse says quietly when they reach one such plastic pod. Inside is a tiny, fragile looking doll with a tube taped into his mouth, tape over both of his eyes and a little blue knit hat on his head.

"Fuck me," he whispers, feeling entirely inadequate.

"He's actually pretty big for a preemie," the nurse tells him quietly, "the doctor thinks a few days...as long as everything else looks alright, and you'll be able to take him home." He stares at the alien looking creature in front of him, more spindly than any baby he's ever seen, and can't believe it. "Do you have a name for him yet?" she asks and Sid looks over to see her with a wrist band in one hand a black marker in the other.

"Simon," he says quietly, turning back to the tiny, fragile form, all pink and wrinkled, in the incubator. "Simon Crosby."


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

"I can't leave them." He amazes himself when he says it but, at the same time, there is not a single doubt in his mind that he is making the right choice. Marc nods and doesn't question him, more evidence that he is doing the right thing.

"I'll tell Dan and Mario. They'll know what to do." Sid knows if he was any other player he'd be expected on the ice they next day after the birth of his child, and he knows that he is abusing his position but he realizes that he doesn't feel any guilt about doing it.

"I hope V understands," he says, changing the subject somewhat. Marc glances over his shoulder at his girlfriend who is leaning against their SUV, her long, dark hair hiding the disappointment they both know she is feeling.

"She'll get over it, with time," Marc says quietly but there is a certain amount of despondency in the keeper's voice as he says it. Sid makes a mental note to speak with someone in the legal department when he gets back. It seems unfair that their not being married yet and being 'young' should be held against them when it comes to adoption, especially when he can see now the hope draining from them both.

"Still, give her a hug and a kiss from me," he tells his friend quietly. Flower nods and then reaches to offer his hand.

"Félicitations à vous deux mes amis," he says sincerely.

"Thanks Flower," Sid replies, taking his friend's hand and pulling him into a hug. They pat one another's back as friend's do but hold on a little longer than usual. There are things they cannot say now, things they might say later, or not that a hug can say now.

"Bonne chance," the finely boned goalie whispers and Sid notes the barely in check emotion in his voice as he does. He nods and then gives his friend's hand a squeeze before Marc turns to go. He hopes things might be able to go back to the way they were before all of this, but he doubts it and he can see the same thought in his teammate's eyes before he turns to go. He watches him walk away, watches him gather Vero against him. It will be a long drive back home for the two of them but he cannot linger here in the pre-dawn half light. It's time to go back to his own family.

By the time he returns to the NICU, she is there. She is in a wheelchair, a blanket across her lap. One of the nurse's is bent low and by her gestures he can tell that she is explaining the wires, the tubes that lead from their son to all of the monitors around the incubator. Her eyes are wide and the expression on her face is unmistakably one of terror.

He makes his way to her side and reaches to peel one of her hands from where it has a white knuckle grip on the arm rest of the wheelchair. Her hand disappears into his and she holds onto him with a death grip.

"He's so tiny," she whispers, her gaze still locked on the tiny pink form in the plastic box in front of them. He watches the fragile looking chest struggle to rise and fall and gives her hand a squeeze.

"He'll be fine," he tells her, though he is not at all sure of that himself. "They said he might not look like it but he'll be just fine."

"Thirty-two weeks for a preemie really isn't so bad," a nurse in Barbie pink scrubs and blonde pig tails appears at the side of the incubator and picks up the clip board and then adjusts one of the leads. "A lot of the complications that can happen are more likely to happen in babies under thirty-two weeks. Mostly he's just a little bit skinny, so he has trouble staying warm, which we're helping him with and he's having a little bit of respiratory issues, which we're monitoring but honestly, he's looking pretty good, he's keeping his blood pressure up and the fetal ultrasound didn't show any abnormalities so everything is looking good so far and if he keeps up like this, in the morning, mom, you're gonna feed him and help him fatten up. How does that sound?" He feels as if his heart is going to swell so much it is going to explode and when he looks down, tears are welling in her eyes.

"Sounds great," he whispers hoarsely, giving her hand another squeeze. "Right?" She nods but he is fairly sure if she tried to actually speak she will just cry.

"Okay, well my names Kammy and I'm the Pedes Resident here and I'm going to be here until the morning shift comes on so if you guys want to go and get some rest, I can come get you if there's any change at all." He lets out a breath of relief he had not realized he was holding. He had been assuming they would send him home and he would have to leave them behind. "You both look like you could do with some sleep," she adds with an encouraging smile.

"Just...just a minute or two more," Fern says quietly and leans towards the incubator, a tear slipping down her cheek.

"You bet," Kammy grins and then turns to go and check on another baby. He pushes the wheelchair closer and he can feel the heat coming from the little box.

"Hey there Simon," he whispers, the sudden urge to run his fingertips over the tissue thin pink skin is so overwhelming that his hand hovers over the box.

"Oh my god, look at his hands," she whispers, her own fingers fluttering like a moth near a flame. He guesses that she is also feeling the need to touch and comfort the tiny delicate form on the white and blue blanket in front of them.

"I know, long fingers," he replies and looks down at their entwined hands.

"Just like his daddy," she whispers and looks up at him, her eyes wide and pleading. He smiles and nearly laughs. She does not have to ask.

"I'm right here," he whispers, cradling her cheek with his other hand. "I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

><p>She wakes sometime in the early hours of the morning, when the entire world seems to be holding its breath and even the usually noisy hallways of the hospital are still, quiet and dim. He is sleeping in a chair in the corner of the private room, his cheek on his bunched up suit jacket, his breathing slow and deep. She watches him for a few minutes, wondering if she should wake him, just so that she will not be alone, but decides against it.<p>

Wrapping her robe around herself and wincing as all of the muscles that have been so recently abused complain at being moved so soon, she slips out of the room and down the hallway.

She stops at the window outside the nursery and looks at all of the pink, cherub cheeked healthy babies whose mothers will be able to take them home in the morning. She smiles as they stretch and suckle in their sleep and imagines how warm their little bodies must be and how they must smell like baby powder and warm milk.

She only pauses there a moment or two before she moves down the hall to where nurses move between the brightly lit incubators like shades, silent and swift as they check temperatures, monitors, adjust tubes and administer life saving medicines. They lift their eyes to greet her with a smile as she makes her way to that incubator housing her son. No one raises an alarm or tries to stop her. Other mothers must feel like this, she thinks as her hand hovers above the warm little cube of light, the need to be near, to watch, to wait.

One tiny, fragile little hand uncurls and reaches into the air before curling back up. Her own hand twitches with the need to put her finger into that little fist, to feel his strength, to be reassured by it. Instead she wraps her arms around herself and stares down at his delicate little body with its delicate bones almost visible through his paper thin skin reminding her of a baby bird.

"Hey little boy," she whispers as his tiny toes curl, toes she longs to press against her mouth and blow on, use to tell the story of the little pigs and have him squirm and giggle as she does.

"He's holding his own," Kammy appears like a spectre at her side and nearly makes her jump.

"I...I just want to touch him," she explains, knowing at the same time she'll be terrified of breaking him, of damaging him with her clumsy hands.

"Sure," she says, pointing towards a round opening in the side of the incubator, which she carefully and slowly unlatches. "You'll wear these for the first while," she explains, handing a pair of surgical gloves to Fern, "and then it's a good idea to rub your hands together, so they're warm and then just reach in and speak softly and let him know that you're just going to lay your hand very gently on his head, like that," the Resident says softly but encouragingly. Fern's hand trembles as she slides it through the opening but as her fingers meet the tiny cap on his head and she feels the soft heat coming from him, her knees almost give way beneath her.

"Right behind you." She leans back into his chest and feels his arm snap around her waist like a security latch on a fairground ride. The heat from him, the solid feel of him behind her and the way Simon's body becomes very still as she strokes him makes her feel better than she has in months. "Hey big guy," he coos from behind her, "that's your mom and I'm right here. We're both here buddy," he adds and she is forced to bite down on the inside of her cheek to stifle a sob that tries to escape.

"Do you want to hold him?" Kammy says suddenly and both of them turn to look at her. "We call it Kangarooing and it's good for a preemie's temperature regulation," she adds, inclining her head towards a rocker in the corner of the NICU. "Mostly we get dads to do it, 'cuz they don't mind having their shirts off in front of all us girls," she adds with a playful grin. Fern raises an eyebrow at her, thinking of course they all want to see _him_ with his shirt off, but when he doesn't protest, she shrugs and stands back, watching him makes short work of his rumpled dress shirt.

With the help of one of the nurses, Kammy lifts the incubator lid and with two hands gingerly lifts Simon from the blanket and carries him to where Sid has slid onto the rocker. His eyes are as big as saucers as he watches her very, very carefully place her tiny burden onto Sid's bare chest, respirator and all.

For a long moment it seems like no one dares to breathe and then one tiny little hand wraps itself almost around Sid's thick one and then everyone in the room lets out that held breath, and smiles.

* * *

><p>"Can't remember ever being so tired," she sighs as she climbs back into the hospital bed and scrambles under the blanket. He's also tired but the kind of tired that is past the point of sleep being a cure. It's the kind of tired he gets when he'll lie awake and think about a game, go over each play in his head, analyze each pass, each shot. Only tonight it won't be the game, it will be his son and the way his little body felt pressed against his chest. He can still feel it, lifts his hand to press it over the still warm spot where that tiny body had slept.<p>

"I came here to tell you something," he begins before he's even thought about what he's going to say. She looks alarmed and then guarded and he knows without having to ask or be told that she's anticipating the worst. He would take that fear from her eyes if he could but he isn't sure he has the words to do it, but he squares his shoulders just as he has the few times he's known he has to drop the gloves and lifts his chin. "I want him, Simon...our son. I want him but I want you too." His first words had made her dark eyes darker but his last words make them big and round. "I missed you. When I got back to the house...you not being there...I didn't like it and before you say anything else," he adds in a softer tone, taking that step that brings him to the edge of the bed with its crisp white sheets, "I missed the smell of you and the way you laugh and...and your face," he adds in an almost whisper as he reaches out to cradle her cheek in his hand.

"If this is some kind of ploy for custody," she hisses like a snake about to strike and he has to fight his first instinct to draw back. Sometimes you just have to stare down your opponent, show them you're not gonna back down.

"I know we didn't do this the right way but we can make it right now. We can be a family, you, me and him," he adds, stroking his thumb along the tense line of her jaw. "That's what I want Fern. That's what I'm asking. I want us to be together, properly." That look is back, the stray dog that's been poked and hit too many times, as she looks up at him, distrust mixed with a craving to be stroked, to be loved.

"And when he cries at two in the morning and you have a game the next day, will you want us then?" she asks, like it's a challenge, her gaze searching his face for any little tic that will give his true motives away.

"Even then," he promises. She narrows her eyes and her lips thin out and he can tell she's trying to think of something gory, something truly frightening that will trip him up but while that little form lay on his chest, he's thought of everything and then some. "Diapers, feeds, coughs, colds, blisters, scraped knees, all of it Fern. I want it."

"Okay, so you want him but c'mon...not me. You don't want me," she sighs and starts to turn her face away but his other hand captures her face and he sees the look of shock on her face right before he presses his mouth over hers'.

"I do," he whispers against her cheek before pressing his mouth tenderly to the bridge of her nose. "I want your sarcastic comments and your sweet laughter and your old movies. I want you and I don't really know how you got under my skin woman but you have and that's all there is to it," he tells her and means it. "I won't go back to Pittsburgh without both of you and that's all there is to it." Tears fill her dark eyes as she looks up at him. The apprehension is still there but even though he can see she is still fighting it, the need to believe him is beginning to win out. "You're in here," he whispers, taking one of her hands and pressing it to the same spot, over his heart, where their son had lain. "Both of you are in here," he adds and then shrugs because he's not ready to say the words that are there, on the tip of his tongue, because now it's his turn to be afraid. He's dropped the gloves now all he can do is wait.

* * *

><p>"Stay," she says quietly and scoots over on the bed. It's not a yes or a no and probably not the answer he is looking for at all but he looks relieved all the same as she makes room for him in the single hospital bed. He cradles her gently against him and she lets herself relax into his arms.<p>

Was this how Simon felt, she wonders as she presses her cheek to his chest and listens to the slow, steady rhythm of his heart beat. 'Safe' is the word that comes to mind as his arm slides across her back and over her shoulder. Other words sneak into her consciousness but she bats them away like shuttlecocks as her eyes droop and sleep sneaks up on her. Those are words for later, when their son is not hooked up to tubes and wires and machines that breathe for him.

So many things can happen to change everything, she knows as she listens to his breaths slow and deepen and feels his mighty chest rises and falls more slowly. Not least of all, his father, Mario, the league, the press...

But those are thoughts for another time she tells herself as she covers a yawn with her hand and snuggles closer to the warm, solid form that is the man that holds all of their futures in the palm of his hand. Now she needs sleep and for just a little while, to believe that dreams just might come true after all.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

"A day or two more, tops, no more," Mario begins but Sid shakes his head emphatically.

"Until I can bring them _both_ home, I'm not leaving here. I thought you, of all people, would understand that." Mario purses his lips and then runs his big hand through his still dark hair.

"I _do_ understand and I commend you for being so responsible about this but what about the team? What about your loyalty to them?" It's Sid's turn to run his fingers through his hair and pace in front of the NICU grinding his teeth together as he thinks. She is inside trying to breast feed their son. She made him promise to stay away but he feel's her presence nearby like a physically tug.

"A week, ten days at the outside... They lasted half a season without me, what's another week?" Mario's head swivels and his gaze focuses on the same scene Sid is currently watching. His wide shoulders lift and drop as he sighs.

"A _week_ but if they're still here after that..."

"Then we'll have Simon transferred to a hospital closer to home," Sid replies firmly, "and I'll be back on the ice. I promise."

"You understand this means I have to lie to the league, say your symptoms are back." Sid nods and rubs at a spot at the back of his neck, sore from sleeping in that cramped hospital bed as he watches her cradle his son against her breast. There is nothing sexual in the sight before him. In fact a soft warm glow fills his chest as he watches.

"Yeah, but it's for a good cause." He feels his mentor's big hand settle on his shoulder.

"Es-tu en amour avec cette fille?"

"Yes, I am," he admits without a second thought, his gaze fixed on his little family, a crooked smile on his face.

"It's a big task," Mario begins very quietly but in a tone that Sid knows carries a warning. "A preemie, this girl..."

"Just because it's not easy doesn't mean it's not worth doing," he replies swiftly, quoting something he's almost sure Disco Dan has said before. Mario's fingers dig into his shoulder and then he pats his shoulder.

"A week Sid, c'est tout," his mentor calls as he walks down the corridor. Sid does not answer. A week, a month...he has no perception of time in this place. Not that it matters as no amount of time that will part him from his heart, which he has come to realize is no longer his.

* * *

><p>"I'm so tired. I can't imagine if he was home," she sighs as she steps out of the shower and wraps herself in a towel that is surprisingly soft and not at all like the starched bed sheets.<p>

"We'll get a nanny," he calls from the other room. She stops and looks at herself in the mirror. There are dark circles under her eyes and her skin is sallow and pale. She hardly recognizes the woman staring back at her but she knows that it is not a woman who has a nanny.

"No," she calls back and then tips her hair forward and begins to wind a towel around her straight dark tresses.

"No?" he calls back and without seeing him she knows he is smiling, probably amused by her independent streak or thinking that she's crazy to turn his offer down.

"It's just...why do I need anyone else's help?" she asks, reaching for the clothes that she has lain out for herself. "It's not like I have anything else to do," she adds, frowning at her still swollen, if smaller middle as she wriggles into her maternity jeans. "Or have you suddenly forgotten that you promised to help?"

"I haven't forgotten," he calls back, laughter in his voice.

"And what about all the help you said all the...what do you call them, WAG's would give?" she adds, dragging the towel off of her head and tugging a shirt over her head that only muffles part of what she says. Looking at herself in the mirror now she almost recognizes the face of the woman looking back at her, only this woman, despite looking tired, looks almost happy.

"I'm sure you'll get more help than you need, it was just an offer," he says, his hands suddenly on her waist. The sensation of him so near is still so new that she doesn't settle into it right away. She still has to catch her breath, still wants to pinch herself to prove that it's real. She is only beginning to allow herself to relax into him, to feel the press of his wide chest against her back when nearby voices drag her out of the almost perfect moment.

"Honey you didn't call, you should have had someone call." Fern squeezes her eyes shut and curses under her breath. When she opens her eyes again her mother is standing in the doorway to the bathroom with one of those helium balloons in the shape of a soother in one hand and a bouquet of carnations in the other. Her father is not far behind with a giant blue bear under his arm.

"Hi mom," she says quietly but her mother's gaze is focussed on the man standing behind her with a possessive hand on her daughter.

"Fernie...can we speak with you...alone?" She nods but the moment she begins to disentangle herself from him his hand closes around her wrist and he pulls her back to him.

"We do this together," he whispers, his breath warm on the shell of her ear. "We're a unit now, remember?" She doesn't look back but nods, once and then lets him take her hand and lead her out into the room and to the bed where he waits until she is sitting on the side of the thin mattress with its neatly tucked sheets before he turns to face her parents, standing sentry beside her.

"You?" Her father says, his expression flickering back and forth between outrage and awe like an old black and white b-movie.

"I know this is probably a shock," Sid begins but Fern digs her fingernails into the palm of her head and gives a barely discernable shake of her head. He falls silent and turns his bronze and gold flecked eyes towards her, perplexed.

"Now you can understand why I couldn't say," she tells them, her gaze holding his, silently asking him to trust her.

"I damn well do _not_," her father snarls but it is the bark of a lap dog, not the growl of a full grown mastiff like Troy Crosby. She does not flinch and neither does Sid.

"Daddy," she hisses, turning to narrow her eyes at her father whose expression immediately softens, "please. This isn't easy for Sidney," she adds with a quick sideways glance at him. "This was a...a mistake," she adds very quietly, intentionally looking away from him though she hears his quick intake of breath. "Sidney's an important person and he shouldn't have to pay for my mistake."

"_Fern_," Sid growls and her shoulders rise in a defensive reflex but she doesn't heed the warning tone of his voice.

"He'll damn well pay for some of it," her father rumbles and she is just a little proud of him. He is usually quick to avoid confrontation and she knows that at least some part of him wants to shake Sidney's hand and tell him how much he enjoys watching him play. Were Mario in the room as well she knows that her father wouldn't be able to even form words.

"I certainly w...ouch!" She digs her fingernails deep into the palm of Sid's hand and it silences him before he can continue.

"Daddy, this is between Sidney and I. I really don't need you to worry about it," she insists with a pleading smile she hopes will make all this go away. Her father aims a thunderous look towards Sidney and even her best eyelash batting, quivering bottom lip look does not have the effect she is hoping for so she turns to her mother. "Mom just let me deal with this," she pleads but her mother's lips stay pressed together so tightly they are nearly bloodless. With a roll of her eyes she tries again. "You don't know...it's complicated and...mmmffff." Her plea is cut off as Sid manhandles her, turning her towards him and covering her mouth with his own, again and again until she falls into a somewhat subdued silence.

"Are you done trying to cover for me?" he asks sternly but with a smile and a twinkle in his eyes. She nods, unsmiling and with a petulant jut of her bottom lip. His smile grows to a smirk before he presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth and then turns to her parents.

"Mr. and Mrs. Smith, this is totally my fault and I'm taking full responsibility for it and I'm really sorry I didn't think to call you last night. Would you like to see your grandson?"

* * *

><p>"You didn't have to do that," she sighs as she lays her head on his shoulder as together they watch her parents gaze longingly at the tiny form in the incubator.<p>

"I'm not letting you tell a pack of lies to your parents for my sake," he whispers, kissing the top of her head affectionately, "even though I know you thought you were helping and I appreciate that part." His arm is locked around her waist and he thinks that it feels like she fits against him well, as if she was meant to be there, two puzzle pieces fitting together in the way they do when once their interlocked you can't get them apart again. He smiles at the thought.

"And what about your parents? When are you going to tell them?" she asks in a soft, hesitant voice. He keeps his gaze on the little pink doll with the clue knit cap and tries not to think about what his father would say if he knew that his son was choosing this over skating with his team.

"I'll tell them just...not yet." He can feel her turn her face up to look at him but he doesn't look down at her, afraid that if he sees the accusation in his eyes he'll be forced to make the call he is not yet ready for. "Besides," he adds with a smile as her father looks over the top of the incubator and aims another withering look their direction, "your father hasn't made up his mind if he's going to kill me yet."

"_My_ dad?" she snorts and then giggles. "My dad doesn't even kill spiders in the house."

"Yeah but maybe if they got his precious baby pregnant and forced her to have a kid out of wedlock he might," he tells her, turning to gather her against his chest and reaching to brush her hair back from her cheek. She looks tired but the smile she aims at him now amplifies that warm glow he's been feeling and makes her cheek glow as well. She might not be a Victoria's secret model, he thinks as he lowers his mouth to capture hers but she makes his heart skip a beat.

"Where's the fucking cigars!"

He groans and she collapses against his chest in a fit of giggles as they are suddenly bombarded with teddy bears and find themselves in the middle of a giant group hug.

"I guess Mario told them," he says, apologetically but she is grinning and allowing herself to be dragged into Pascal's arms.

"Flower did!" Jordan calls, pressing his face to the glass of the NICU. "Which one's ours?"

"Ours?" he laughs, accepting a high five from Geno before TK picks him up off of his feet and swings him around.

"What's yours is ours what's ours is ours and...wait...," Kennedy puts him down, scratches his head, looks perplexed and starts counting on his fingers.

"Félicitations à vous deux," Kris adds, draping his arms around both of them. "How is the little one? Flower said..."

"Doing okay, thanks" Sid interjects before the dark haired defenseman can say more.

"Que de bonnes nouvelles. I'm glad for you both," he says sincerely, pressing a kiss to both of their cheeks and quickly dances out of the way before Sid can shove him out of the way. "Are those the out-laws?" he adds with a quick glance towards the window through which Fern's mother is staring back in obvious alarm.

"My parents...yes," Fern replies with amusement, a light glittering in her dark eyes that makes him want to kiss her until her lips are swollen. This idea surprises him less than the fact that he doesn't like her being separated from him even this much.

"Can you guys keep it down?" he snaps, suddenly irritated to have any of them there, to have to share this with anyone but her.

"Sid...it's alright," she says quietly, reaching past Tanger who still has his arm around her as if he has a right to, to touch his arm, to placate him.

"No, it's not. There's sick kids in there and these guys are not even supposed to be here. The only reason no one's saying anything is because of who we are," and for the first time in a long time he wishes he isn't. He wishes he could be just another parent, no one special, so he could be alone with her and with their son.

"They're your friends," she reminds him quietly, moving away from Kris and wrapping her hands around his arms, or as much as she can, and looking up at him in that way that she does that makes him feel like he is even more than Sidney Crosby, like he is a super hero. "Let them be happy for us," she adds and he feels it, like a cross check to the back and two handed slash to the back of his knees at the same time.

"Us?" he more mouths the word than says it and she nods and offers her mouth and he takes it in a long, warm soft kiss that makes the small hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and his heart try and claw its way out of his chest. He ignores the wolf whistles and the other sarcastic, teasing sounds his teammates make and holds her in that kiss as if he could make the entire world go away.

"Better?" she asks when he lets her up for air, her face suffused with a soft glow. He nods and smiles sheepishly, knowing his face is fiery red. He feels the heat up to the tips of his ears. "You haven't eaten in ages. Go down to the cafeteria, let them bug you for a while and then come back...to us, okay?"

"Okay," he agrees and kisses the corner of her mouth softly before turning like the pied piper and leading his team of merry men down the hall.

* * *

><p>Still floating on a cloud of new and fluffy emotions she makes her way to the side of her mother who is still standing beside the incubator, her gaze locked on the too small form inside, her father having joined the boys on their search for decent hospital food or at least a hot coffee.<p>

"I am sorry I didn't call mom, it's just...when it started...I didn't think about much and I was so scared," she admits. Her mother, without taking her eyes of her grandson, leans over and presses a butterfly light kiss to her daughter's cheek.

"I can imagine. I'm just sorry you had to do that all on your own baby," she says, reaching to squeeze Fern's hand.

"Oh...yeah, I didn't. Vero...that is, my friend Veronique was there and then Marc brought Sidney and then he was there," she explains, feeling suddenly flushed and in need of a chair. Back peddling, she collapses into the nearby rocking chair and fans herself with her hand. With her own child in immediate need, her mother tears her gaze from her grandson and turns a concerned and appraising eye on Fern.

"So how long has this been going on with _him_?" her mother asks, hands on her hips in a recognizably 'I do not approve' stance. Fern blows out a breath and shrugs her shoulders.

"It's complicated," she whispers. Her mother raises a single eyebrow and Fern sighs. "Honestly I'm not sure you'd believe me if I told you because I don't really believe it myself."This explanation causes her mother to make a face but just as she opens her mouth, probably to ask for a better explanation, all kinds of alarms go off and both women start to look around, trying to discern from which of the little plastic bubbles the cry for help is coming.

The nurses know. Every set of free hands makes a beeline for Simon's incubator and Fern is at once on her feet, trying to see.

"What's going on?" she shrieks, scratching at her mother's arms when she tries to pull her back out of the way.

"Let them do their job Fernie. They know what they're doing," her mother tells her sternly but Fern's own maternal instincts are on overdrive and she fights to get to her son.

"Tell me! Someone tell me what's going on?" She looks to the monitors, seeing spikes in the usually gentle waves and feels her heart racing in her chest.

"We told you this might happen." Another, firmer pair of hands push firmly down on her shoulders and Kammy, the resident's calm face, hovers into view. "He's having some trouble with his oxygen, it happens, try not to panic." She is panicking, she knows, and appreciates that the almost doctor does not tell her not to. She is far past control over that.

"Is he going to be alright? Is he?" she shrieks, watching hands moving, wires being placed and moved, her son's skin turning a frightening shade of grey. "Well, will he?"


	25. Chapter 25

I_ know, it's short but I wanted to post something today_ _and not make you wait any longer._**  
><strong>

**Chapter 25**

She lifts her head from his lap at the surgeon's approach. She feels more than hears Sid's quick intake of breath and knows that he is doing the same thing she is, trying to read the man's expression, body language, to get some clue, any clue before he actually speaks. She half expected there to be blood on his scrubs but can't decide if she is relieved because there is none or not, after all, how much blood can there be in the body of a four pound five ounce baby boy?

"Mr and Mrs Crosby?" he asks and she nods before Sid can object, pushing up on his powerful thighs and wiping at her eyes. What they are or are not is hardly important right now. The man smiles and a shudder wracks her tired body, relief flooding her system. "The surgery to close the ductus arteriosis was successful, and he's back in the NICU now. You can go up and see him if you like." She hears Sidney let out the breath he's been holding since the man walked through the doors and feels his hand squeeze hers'. She squeezes back and starts to get up.

"What's his recovery time?" Sid asks and she turns to glare at him, glad the doctor was leaving and ready to put the whole frightening night behind them.

"It varies from one child to the next but it's a very straight forward procedure, as we explained to you and probably in a few days he'll be catching up with everything," the surgeon replies with a smile, reaching up to pull the blue cap from his greying hair. "They'll be monitoring his blood pressure a little more closely for a few days, but other than that, things will be much as they were. The nurses will be keeping an eye on his temperature and oxygen levels." She waitsfor him to add that it will be touch and go or that they are far from out of the woods or something else equally vague but ominous but the surgeon just gives his best McDreamy smile and turns and heads away from them.

"That's good," Sidney says sounding definite. She looks over at him and finds herself smiling. It's good not to be alone in this. She leans over and wraps her arms around his neck. He looks over at, startled and she grins.

"Thank you," she sighs and then presses her lips gently against his.

"What for?" he asks, his caramel coloured eyes searching hers'.

"If I'd had to sit here by myself and waited all that time...," she shakes her head. It isn't worth thinking about. She is grateful and more certain of him than she has ever been.

"I told you we're in this together," he tells her without hesitation, his arms circling her waist as he pulls her onto his lap. She glances surreptitiously around them but they are alone, apart from an old woman with her head bent over her knitting and her middle aged daughter who has been pacing the waiting room for longer than they have been here. She has the urge, as she turns her gaze back to meet his to tell them that he doesn't have to be but that argument dies on her tongue as he leans his forehead to meet with hers' and stares deeply into her eyes. "When are you going to believe me?" he asks, sounding genuinely hurt. She shrugs and lets him cradle her against his chest.

"I'm too tired to argue now," she yawns and closes her eyes.

"Mmm, about that," he begins slowly, brushing her temple with his soft lips, "you were discharged this morning. I guess we should be thinking about a hotel room...or umm...rooms."

"Hotel? My parents live five minutes away," she replies immediately and then presses her lips together and tries not to laugh when she remembers how her father reacted upon meeting him. "On second thought...you probably don't want to do that," she adds with a smile, unable to picture Sidney in her parent's modest suburban bungalow.

"Actually that sounds like a good idea," he says, surprising her. "I bet your parents would be glad to see you. They didn't get much of a visit earlier and I'm sure they'll want an update on Simon."

* * *

><p>He feels badly, making her mother run around like a frightened hen, clucking and flapping her arms excitedly as she tries to come up with some place other than the couch for him to sleep. He does not presume that he will share the twin bed in her small bedroom. They spent the night in a cramped hospital bed and he would gladly do it again, though his back and neck might complain, but he will not assume that she is eager to do so. After all, she had escaped as soon as she could.<p>

That thought turns his mind to his son. He feels a sort of tug, a dull ache in his chest that he defines as guilt at being away from his son's side. It feels strange, unnatural. The only thing that eases his conscious is he knows that she feels is too. He sees it in the way she glances towards the door and up at the decorative clock on her parents' mantel.

They are nice people, normal people. They are clearly worried for their daughter but are too polite to say so in front of him though her father continues to be stiff and formal with him. He does his best to be the polite and respectful man his mother raised him to be and the supportive partner he wants to be as he keeps hold of her hand.

"It's just for tonight," he tells her mother as she reappears with a folded comforter and a pillow piled on top. "If he can't be transferred to Children's in Pittsburgh I'll make other arrangements tomorrow," he promises.

"Oh it's no trouble I just...," she glances at her daughter who rolls her eyes and looks away, "we don't have a lot of room," she replies though it's clear from the confused look she gives her daughter that she expected them to share a room and a bed. He does not press the point. There have been enormous strides taken in their relationship and he will not chance chasing her away again.

"And I appreciate your making room for me tonight Mrs. Smith," he says softly as he takes the burden from her, aiming a genuinely warm smile at her at the same time. She looks like an older version of her daughter but a version to whom life has not been entirely kind. He vows that Fern will not look the same when their son graduates college. She bobs her head and with another curious look at her daughter disappears down the hallway to the master suite and closes the door behind her.

"You make her nervous but I think she likes you," Fern smirks, giving him a nudge.

"I feel bad," he admits, keeping his voice low as he takes the quilt and pillow into what was likely a spare room but has been made into a sort of study but not like the one that Mario has in the big house in Sewickley.

"Don't. My mom likes to fuss. It's her thing," Fern muses as she leans in the doorway. "I'm sorry...Sidney Crosby on a camp bed...I'm the one who feels bad," she snorts and when he turns to look at her she's barely containing a giggle behind her hand.

"I think you're enjoying this," he tells her honestly, placing the pillow on the end of the cot and unfolding the quilt. She chuckles and holds up her hand, thumb and forefinger held about an inch apart. "Well get your jollies now, tomorrow it'll be back to luxury suites and California King sized beds," he promises, reaching for her and sliding his arms around her waist.

"Jordan told me you have a single bed above Mario's garage, is that the one you're talking about?" she teases. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "I think the only luxury you're getting until we can bring him home is a lot of painting and a late night or two putting together some nursery furniture," she threatens with a smile.

"I'm sure I can call someone to do that," he tells her, knowing her answer before she says it.

"I don't think you get dad points for having people do that for you," she points out with a smirk that he has the strongest urge to kiss off her face.

"I didn't know there were 'dad points'," he queries, nuzzling her neck which makes her squirm but his hold on her is secure.

"Yeah well there is and you've missed out on earning a bunch so you'd better get caught up," she squeaks as he nips playfully at her earlobe.

"Well I can think of a way to start making those up," he whispers in her ear. A bark of laugher is not the reaction that he expects but it's what he gets as she struggles to get free of his grasp on her. Backing up from she shakes her head.

"I think you've done enough damage, don't you?" she asks, both of her palms pressed against the middle of his chest. Before he can pout she presses her lips softly against his and slides her arms up to encircle his neck. "Goodnight Sidney," she whispers and then with a quick, soft peck to his cheek she disappears down the hallway and pulls her bedroom door shut behind her.

He stares after her, perplexed and maybe more than just a little exasperated at being shot down. Shaking his head he closes the door to the study and steps out of his suit pants, carefully folding them and putting them on the back of a nearby chair followed by his rumpled dress shirt wishing that he could just stop at Walmart for jeans like everyone else.

Slipping under the quilt he stares up at the ceiling in the dark and makes a mental note to have clothes sent out if they cannot have Simon transferred. Then, as he lies there in the dark, one arm behind his head, he begins to make a mental list of all of the things that will need to be done in the house, things that need to be bought and wonders to himself if Vero is ready to put together a baby shower for Fern or if he should ask Carole-Lyne.

* * *

><p>She lies alone in the dark and stares at the wall that separates them. It has been a strange few days she decides with a sigh, a few hours that have changed her life in ways that she knows that can't yet wrap her mind around.<p>

She feels different she thinks as she rolls onto her back and closes her eyes, making a mental tally of the little aches and pains. Her breasts are heavy and feel full and her back and hips still hurt but it isn't just the physical changes that have her staring at the ceiling, unable to sink into the oblivion of sleep.

There is her son, small and helpless that incubator, now miles away. She feels each and every one of those miles like a fishing lure in her heart, tugging on an invisible line.

His is not the only line, nor the only hook in her heart. What a difference a few hours can make, she thinks as she pictures the other invisible line tugging on heart leading through the bricks and mortar to the man in the next room. When she thinks of him she feels not only a tug on her heart but on her lips. She can barely contain a grin as she feels a warm glow spread through her chest.

A little voice in the back of her head tells her that she should beware, but where that voice was once too loud to ignore it is now barely above a whisper and easily brushed off with hardly a second thought. He has buoyed her though the last day, made her feel safe and most importantly kept her together when she felt the earth slipping from beneath her feet. Just when she'd been so sure that he was none of the things she had dreamed he would be, he is becoming all of the those things and more.

Throwing her quilt aside, she gets to her feet and pads silently across the cold floor. Careful to open her door slowly lest it squeak she slips out into the hallway and very slowly turns the handle on the door to her father's study.

His eyes flick towards the shaft of light the moment she pushes the door open. He watches her walk across the floor and then dubiously down at her hand when she offers it to him. He opens his mouth to ask something but a swift shake of her head and a press of her finger tip to her lips in a plea for silence keeps him mute.

Once his hand slides into hers' she leads him silently back to her room and closes the door behind them. He slides into her bed behind her and fits his body neatly into hers. She closes her eyes and moans into her pillow when he presses a series of warm, wet kisses to the nape of her neck and down over her shoulder. But when he slides his fingers beneath the strap of her tank top she freezes.

"Sidney...uh...just...can you just hold me?" She knows without turning to look that he is contemplating asking the question and she grinds her teeth together. She didn't know. There is no reason that he would.

"Yeah," he says with a sigh and tucks her body into his, wrapping his arms around her.

"I would," she tells him very quietly, making a face as she forces herself to explain, "but I can't...not for a while." He does not reply, not immediately, but she can practically hear him thinking.

"Oh," he says suddenly and then again, more quietly, "oohhh."

"I know it's...gross but...it'll give us time to get to know each other and...I'd like that," she whispers, holding herself very still as she waits for his reply.

"Yeah," he says, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder "yeah, good idea."


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

"That part doesn't go in there," Gronk smacks Kennedy's hand away from the mobile he's putting together. "Go back to painting. I'm doing this."

"Hey, less fighting, more working. We're bringing Simon home today. I want everything to be perfect," he grumbles, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on smoothing the edge of a Buzz Lightyear decal on the wall behind where the crib will go, if Dupers ever finishes putting it together, he thinks as he glances at his friend kneeling in the middle of the room, screwdriver in hand. "Need a hand Dupes?"

"I'm just about finished," Pascal calls back.

"Could've fooled me," Tanger snipes from his perch high on a ladder in the corner of the room where he's painting fluffy cheerful looking clouds on the ceiling with a sponge.

"What I'm doing requires some skill and mathematics," Dupers grins menacingly at the long haired defenseman who rolls his eyes.

"You've got instructions, I'm using my creativity here," Kris replies, dabbing the sponge in the paint and then flicking the excess down onto Pascal's head.

"Fuck you Letang!" Pascal growls and shakes a screwdriver at him.

"Tu ne me font pas peur," Kris laughs and showers more paint down.

"I'll kick that ladder out from under you," Pascal menaces, getting up from his knees.

"Hey! Fuck, what did I just fuckin' say?" Sid shouts, putting himself physically between his two teammates. "My son is going to be here in a few hours and we haven't even put up the Christmas tree. Can we please just get this done?"

"Chillax will ya? We'll get ir done Cap, don't get your panties in a knot," Kennedy grins, a smudge of light blue paint filling half of his cheek. Sid resists the urge to add a yellow stripe to the other side of his teammate's face and goes back to painting the chair rail a cheery sunny colour.

"Speaking of your sprogue, where is the little lady?" Jordy asks, his blue eyes nearly crossed as he hangs a small stuffed bear from one of the hooks on the mobile.

"They have kind of a crash course before they let you take your kid home, bathing, diapers, that kind of thing," he replies, a smile on his face and a far away expression in his eyes.

"Diapers...ugh," Gronk shudders visibly paling.

"You get used to it," Pascal tells him with a shrug.

"You get a fucking nanny to do it," Kennedy gags and makes a face that makes them all laugh.

"C'mon, back to work, there's lots to do still. I want all this done before she gets here," Sid commands. Dupers reaches over and turns up the music and each goes back to their task, humming happily until Jordan starts to sing, very out of tune and Tanger launches his pet soaked sponge at the tall forward's head. Sid shakes his head but smiles at all of them in a new, indulgent and paternal sort of way.

* * *

><p>"Oh god, I feel like I'm never going to get the hang of it," one of the other women complains loudly as she fusses with the swaddling on her little girl. Fern tucks the corner of her blanket in and smiles at her effort. For an only child, she thinks with a certain amount of smugness, she's doing pretty well.<p>

"Very good," the midwife puts her hand on Simon's tummy and he looks up at her with his gold flecked green ringed eyes and smiles beatifically. "You've got a happy baby there."

"I'm the luckiest girl in the world," Fern answers softly, laying her own hand gently on the top of the dark curls atop his head.

"I'll say," a woman not far from her says, mostly under her breath but shoots her a sideways glance that would wither a garden full of flowers. Fern carefully regulates her expression and keeps her gaze lowered. As Simon has improved she's become aware of nurses watching her and whispering behind her back, especially when Sidney is around.

"Just remember, as preemies they will probably cry more often, be a little more fussy, so you're going to have to be patient," the midwife reminds them all and then produces a giant white wicker basket loaded with all the goodies needed for taking a little one home. "I have one of these for each of you but hopefully your significant others have more waiting for you at home. I know sometimes when your little bundle of joy comes early you're not always as prepared as you'd planned to be." Fern thought of the big empty house back in Selwickly and all of the things they have yet to buy and she has a moment of vertigo and needs to cling to the edge of the changing table.

"You of all people shouldn't be worried. What do you have waiting at home, like ten nannies?" one of the other mothers asks snidely. Fern presses her lips together and neither looks up, nor answers.

"No, just friends, lots and lots of friends, d'accord?" At the sound of the soft musical lilt of her Quebecois accent, Fern looks up to find Veronique standing nearby, a tiny car seat swinging from her hand. "Pretty ones like me," she adds with a dazzling grin before brushing by the rather dowdy woman and her slightly balding husband.

"Vero..." There are words she wants to say, apologies she should make, but the only word that comes to the tip of her tongue is, "thank you."

"Well what are friends for?" Vero grins as she puts down the car seat and opens her arms to gather Fern in a warm, forgiving hug. "Is everything okay?" she asks, her voice a warm, welcoming whisper in Fern's ear. "You? Le bébé?"

"Fine...I think," she answers, haltingly, suddenly wondering why Veronique is here and not...him. "Not that I'm not glad to see you but...?" she begins, only to have Vero hold her at arms' length, a secretive sort of smile on her face.

"He wants everything absolument parfait. So you, me et le petit homme are going to do some shopping for one or two thing left on the list so he has some time to make your nest parfait pour vous, ça va?"

"One or two things, I wish," Fern mumbles as she reaches to unravel Simon so they can put him in the car seat.

"You might not have had time for a shower but that does not mean nous les filles have not been très occupies," Vero grins, grabbing hold of the basket. "Dépêchez vous, lots to do," she adds, turning and heading for the exit. Fern watches her go, sighing at the sight of her friend's tight little ass squeezed into an even tighter pair of jeans.

"Well Simon, here we go," she whispers, making sure he is snug as a bug in a rug and then pressing her lips to the middle of his tiny forehead, inhaling the soothing scent of warm milk and baby powder from his skin. "You'll hate this when you're older," she promises and then, very carefully lifts his car seat off of the table.

* * *

><p>The last light is on the tree when the boys stumble in from the cold, dusting snow from their jackets and, in Tanger's case, from his hair. Their cheeks are rosy but their lips are almost blue.<p>

"Did you order pizza?" Gronk asks. Sidney carefully opens the first box of newly purchased Christmas ornaments and pulls the first red glass ball out.

"No, but thanks for helping, I appreciate it." The guys all stand in the doorway and stare at him. "What? She'll be home any minute," he explains, hanging the first ball on a branch in the middle of the tree.

"Wait, we worked all day and you're not even gonna feed us?" Kris asks, frowning.

"But we get beer, right?" Kennedy asks, starting to shrug off his jacket.

"I don't have any beer in the house," he replies, pulling the next ornament out and holding it up to the light. Hand painted, green with gold leaf, it catches the light and sends green and gold glow through his system.

"Should I kill him on my own or do you want to help?" Gronk growls and TK gets a dangerous gleam in his eye.

"No need to commit murder," the door opens, letting in a cold wind as a soft voice calls from behind the group and he looks up to see Flower squeezing between Pascal and Tanger with three pizza boxes balanced on a six pack, another six pack swinging from his pinky finger.

There is chaos for a moment, long enough for the rest of the group to divest Marc of his burden while the two young men stare at one another, both with wary half smiles on their faces. When they are alone, the rest of the group in the kitchen searching for plates or at the least napkins, Flower approaches, silently, and opens a box of ornaments and takes one out.

"You look like you need some help mon ami," Marc says quietly, taking in the mostly bare branches.

"Thanks," Sidney says, meaning more than just for bringing the pizzas. Marc nods, shrugs one shoulder and then reaches to hang the candy cane shaped hand painted ornament on a nearby branch.

Side by side, companionably, they hang the ornaments one by one, Christmas carols playing on his iPod, a fire in the hearth and their teammates munching happily on deep dish calorie laden pizza. The tree is nearly groaning with ornaments when the door swings open again and all eyes swivel towards the two women, laden with shopping bags. But it's not those encumbrances that his gaze focuses on. It is the car seat swinging from Fern's hand, her big, dark eyes and her huge, shocked smile.

"Welcome home," he says, walking past his teammates and Vero, taking the car seat form her with one hand and cradling her cheek with the other.

"You did..._all_ this?" she asks, breathless, a look of childish wonder on his face that makes his heart swell to fill his entire chest.

"Fuck no, he did fucking _not_," Kennedy calls out, tipping his head back and shoving most of a giant slice of pizza into his mouth.

"I had _a lot_ of help," he admits, brushing her lips with his own.

"Hey it's sprogue Crosby!" Jordy yells and hurdles the couch, grabbing the car seat and carrying it, and their child, over to the kitchen table. He hears her laugh and then feels her arms slide around his waist.

"I tried to get rid of them," he explains. She beams up at him and doesn't complain. "I'm glad you're home, both of you," he adds. She nods and offers him her mouth and he takes it, capturing her lips in a long, soft, kiss.


	27. Chapter 27

_Simon's home, It's Christmas eve..._

**Chapter 27**

"Thanks for coming, really," he said sincerely as he grasped Marc's hand and shook it firmly.

"Pretty big thing having them both home. We wouldn't have missed it," his quiet friend shrugged and then pulled Sid into a one armed male bonding kind of hug. "Félicitations à vous deux."

"Je vous remercie, vous deux, from both of us. Honestly...it was so good to have you here for this. It made it so much better," he turned to wrap his arms around Vero. She felt slight, fragile, in his arms.

"Ce sont les amis?" she replied brightly, though when he held her at arms' length he could see the shimmer of unshed tears in her dark eyes.

"Have you talked to legal at all?" he asked, looking from her strained smile to Marc's more stoic one.

"Don't worry about us," Vero trills, going up on tip toes to press her lips lightly against his cheeks. "Just have a wonderful Christmas with your new family."

"There has to be _something_ we can do," Sid pleads, desperate to erase the brave sadness from both of his friends' eyes.

"Yes, get back on the ice," Marc chides with a smirk that is only partly playful. His gaze is on his girlfriend and Sid feels his gut wrench at the concern in Flower's eyes.

"I will, you know I will. I'll be skating tomorrow probably. It'll just take me a few days to get into a rhythm," he promises earnestly and Flower's smile grows by an inch.

"Don't rush and pull a groin, we've been doing just fine without you," Flower smirks and something of his usual easy going demeanour begins to show.

"I really appreciate you guys covering for me, I do," Sid tells him genuinely. Marc nods and reaches out to clap his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah, you're just worried you won't be such a big deal now Nealer and Geno are taking care of things without you," he teases and then takes his hand and reaches for his girlfriend's. "Come on babe. Nous allons rentrer chez eux avant de Santa veint."

Sid watches them go, standing on the doorstep as his two friends walk, hand in hand through the lightly falling snow towards their car until the chill of the night air begins to make its way beneath his sweatshirt but he only turns to go inside once he watches the car back out of the drive, the beams from its headlights lighting up the night. Locking the door behind him he lets the silence of the empty house sink in and only then does he hear, very faintly, the sound of a lullaby being sung, very softly.

Turning out the lights in the living room and pulling out the cord for the lights on the tree he turns to make his way up the stairs, padding nearly silently on stocking feet towards the newly finished nursery. From the top of the stairs he can hear the familiar lines of Frère Jacques being sung in a sweet, low voice.

Rounding the corner he finds her in the dark, with her sun snuggled against her breast. He stands in the doorway, watching her slowly rocking.

"It only seems real now," she says in a voice that is only an octave above a whisper, "like I only really believe now that he's mine." She only looks up at him then and the slow smile that spreads across her face like honey over bread makes his heart skip a beat. "I'm sorry," she adds, wrinkling up her nose, "I mean ours." He tips his head to the side and shrugs.

"Yours, ours, mine, same thing," he agrees, crossing the floor to her side and dropping a soft, careful kiss to the top of his son's head where it sticks out from the soft blanket she has him cradled in. She looks up at him, her gaze sweeping over his face and he can see the question in her eyes before she gives voice to it. "Just like this house is yours and mine. I don't want you to worry about anything." She drops her gaze but not before he can see her full lips pressed into a thin line.

"Your father," she whispers and he sighs, turning to the window and staring out at the softly falling snow.

"I know, I know I have to deal with him just...can't it wait until the morning?" he asks, his hand curling into a fist.

"It's not like I'm in a hurry for him to come here and yell and threaten me," she says quietly. He hears her get up out of the chair and turns to watch her gently place her burden into the cot. "But don't you think they should know they have a grandchild?" she asks, her gaze still on their son, who yawns and then places as much of his tiny fist into his mouth as he can and begins to suck. He moves towards her, slips his arm around her waist and leans his chin on her shoulder.

"Maybe I'm just a fucking chicken shit," he mumbles and presses an affectionate kiss to her cheek.

"Well your father _is_ kind of scary," she agrees as she leans into him, "but I do want to give him that cheque back and I am kind of looking forward to the look on his face when I do," she adds and he knows her well enough now that he doesn't need to see her face to know that her lips are pulled up into a smirk and her dark eyes are sparkling with mischief. "But you should tell them before you open the door in the morning. That's not the right way for them to find out," she adds in a more serious tone. He sighs and hangs his head. She's right, he knows, but that doesn't make the task any easier to face.

"It's late," he points out, glancing up at the colourful whinnycoo clock on the wall.

"So text your mom, just so they know what they're walking into," she insists and he heaves another sigh.

"She'll be pissed that she didn't get to shop for him," he groans, thinking of the disappointed expression his mother will be wearing when she sees him.

"Well you should have done it before. You've only got yourself to blame," she points out, poking him in the ribs before reaching for the baby monitor and turning it toward the crib. "I'm going to have a shower and get ready for bed while you do that," she adds, giving him a look that reminds him very much of his mother and then turning and leaning over the railing of the crib to run her fingertips tenderly over the soft wisps of dark hair. "Night, night sweet prince. Sweet dreams."

* * *

><p>The shower in the master bedroom is extravagant, she thinks as she stands beneath the rain shower and not just one of those shower wands either but an entire strip that runs from one side of the shower to the other so that it's like you're in a rain storm; a hot rain storm. There are lights that change colour too but she hasn't turned those on. There are steam fittings and a waterfall setting but she is not using those either. The heat and water pressure alone is enough to relax all of her muscles. That and the sense of belonging she has felt since Vero picked her up from the hospital.<p>

His teammates never once made her feel like anything but one of them and without exception they gushed over Simon and offered to babysit whenever she asked. Of course she knows that it's easy for them to say when they're out of town or playing half of every week but it's the offers and the intent behind that has her humming to herself as she reluctantly shuts off the water with her mother's voice in the back of her hand reminding her about conserving and the water bill. Reaching for a towel she finds it already warm and buries her face in the plush softness, another luxury that a girl used to threadbare towels finds hard to get used to.

With her hair wrapped in one towel and herself in another she digs for a pair of unworn pajamas reminding herself that she will have to do laundry in the morning when she hears his voice, soft, deep, almost a whisper. Reaching for the nearest thing, his dress shirt hung on the handle of the closet, she tip toes down the hallway.

He is standing over the crib, gently stroking the top of Simon's head with a look of boyish wonder on his face but it is not the expression he is wearing for she has seen that look before. It is the words he saying that captivates her.

"I wasn't ready for this but God please bless this little guy, and help me keep him safe and sound. Bless both of his perfect tiny hands and feet, so he may stand tall and touch those around him. Let him hear and learn so that he may become wise. Bless his cute little mouth, so he will speak the truth. But most of all don't forget to bless his parents too because God…seriously I don't think I know what I'm doing her but I want to and please…please don't let me let them both down." Tears spring to her eyes as she watches Sid struggle not to cry, his big meaty hands banishing tears from his face before he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders and reaches up to turn on the mobile. "Fuckin' shoulda fuckin' known," he sighs, shaking his head but smiling when it does not turn on.

She is about to back pedal into the hallway as he turns to leave the nursery but then he stops and turns back and as she watches, he reaches for the clasp on the gold chain he wears around his thick neck and then he hangs the small cross from the mobile, right above their son's head. He pauses there, his hand lying gently on the tiny boy's stomach and then he turns.

When he sees here there, standing in the doorway in nothing but his dress shirt the somewhat thoughtful and slightly bemused expression on his face is replaced first by puzzlement and then quickly that too is erased in favor of hunger, lust and need. He erases the gap between them in two strides and reaches for her face, cupping it in his massive hands before pressing his mouth demandingly over hers'.

He kisses her with the same fierce protectiveness that he displays when protecting the puck in the danger zone around the net. His thick fingers dig into her cheeks so hard that she is certain his parents will be able to read his fingerprints on her skin in the morning. His tongue demands entrance to her mouth like an invading army breaching the walls of a castle and she gives up as if it's been a long and hungry siege.

Using his body like a battering ram he walks her into the wall behind her and flattens her against it. She stiffens, as her brain races back to that first, fateful night and his less than impressive performance. Sensing her sudden withdrawal, he reluctantly drags his mouth from hers' and his gaze searches her face.

"Do we still have to wait?" he asks breathlessly. She shakes her head. "Then…what?" he demands, his gaze dropping down to the button that is the only barrier between him and her breasts spilling free.

"Last time…last time…." She bites down on her lower lip, unwilling to actually tell him how disappointing he was, to bruise an ego she now knows is more fragile than he lets on. The barely held in check aggression leaks from his fingers and, blowing out a breath, a hesitant smile tugs at the corners of his full mouth as he leans his forehead against hers and cups his hand around the back of her neck.

"Fuck, last time. I was a fucking asshole last time. I was a stupid, selfish fucking prick last time. You have to know…everything's different now. You know that right? You know how I feel about you, right?" Her immediate reaction is to agree but a niggling little voice in the back of her head forces her to shake her head, no. His jaw clenches and with their immediate proximity she can hear his teeth grind together. His nostrils flare and she feels his grip on the back of her neck tighten. Her maternal instincts being in overdrive, she slides her hands up under his sweatshirt and tries to pull him close but he is as immovable as a boulder. "Christ…why am I scared?" he hisses through clenched teeth.

"Of me? I can't imagine…," she begins only to flinch when his other hand leaves her hip and plants itself in the wall beside her head.

"I love you...am _in_ love with you." He blows out a breath as if he's just been punched in the stomach. When his gaze lifts to hold hers, there is naked fear in his gold bronze eyes. A tiny thrill runs through her veins as she realizes that all of the power has suddenly shifted and she suddenly holds Sidney Crosby's heart in her hands.

* * *

><p>She offers her mouth and he takes it, gently, hesitantly and it assuages some of his fear, but does not erase it. Turning his face from hers' he asks the question that makes his voice break as he does.<p>

"Do you…I mean, can you…after everything, can you feel the same?" He feels her hand cup his cheek and then her lips follow, pressing softly to the corner of his mouth.

"Stupid boy, I've loved Sidney Crosby since I was sixteen years old," she whispers, kissing his cheek, the corner of his jaw.

"But that's…," he begins to object but words fail him when he turns to see her smiling beatifically at him.

"Now I love the father of my child," she adds, her fingertips trailing fire down his neck as she leans in to press a soft kiss to his lips made immobile by surprise. Groaning he presses the full length and width of his body against hers, crushing her against the wall. "Oh Sidney," she gasps as he grinds his urgent need against the top of her thigh.

"I have to have you…_now_," he moans into her neck, biting and licking his way down to her collarbone. He feels her fingers dig into his hair, the pressure of her hands guiding him to that button that, once popped open, releases the soft swell of her breast to his questing mouth. Her skin is sweet and fragrant from the shower, still warm as his lips move over the pale mound of her breast to the ripe, dark berry of her nipple. "Is it…is this okay?" he asks, cupping the heaviness of breast in his hand.

"I don't know," she replies honestly, her eyes glazed over, her jaw slack. Tenderly, cautiously he flicks her nipple with the tip of his tongue. She drags in a ragged breath. He waits to see if she stops him but instead she hooks her leg around the back of his thigh and digs her nails into his scalp so gently he closes his lips around her nipple and sucks it into his mouth. She gasps and tips her head back, revealing the long pale line of her throat. Kissing his way up it he captures her lips again and slides his hand down over her hip and onto her ass, pulling her against him, grinding his erection against her stomach.

She is still soft there, her body yielding to his eagerness, not quite like the cute little body she had before but he is no less impatient to have her, to be inside of her. He could have her there and then, but he won't. It isn't right. Not with a California King sized bed a few steps away.

Reaching for her hand he laces his fingers with hers and leads her down the hallway, to the end of the bed and then reaches to undo that last button but her hand covers his and she looks up at the light over their heads. He opens his mouth to tell her that she shouldn't be insecure but decides against it and goes to turn off the light instead. When he turns back around she is under the blanket, his shirt in a ball on the floor.

Her eyes follow him as he tugs the sweatshirt over his head and tosses it behind him, her gaze dropping to his jeans as he undoes the button and unzips the fly. Her eyes suddenly rise to meet his when he wriggles out of his boxer briefs, her eyes wide, as if she hasn't seen what he has to offer. He climbs into the bed beside her, diving under the covers and fitting his body neatly along hers'. He will need to take his time. As much as he wants to forego the preliminaries and get straight to the main event he reminds himself that she is not just another girl, she is his, to have and to hold and that he's promised that this time will be different.

To prove his point he begins again at her mouth, ignoring the painful ache in his balls, and kisses, nibbles, licks and bites his way back down to her breasts, paying special attention to the little sighs, whimpers and cries she emits to guide him and then, with his lips locked around one nipple he slides his hand between her thighs. He barely brushes his fingertips over her mound when she jerks beneath him. Startled, he rises above her, searching her face for a sign of pain and then, finding none, slips his fingers into her damp folds.

"Ooooh god," she moans and digs her fingernails deep into his shoulders. He has always been worried about carrying bed time battle scars into the dressing room. Tonight's he will wear with pride.

"You like that baby?" he asks, watching her bite down on her bottom lip as he strokes her clit, slow, lazy circles that make her squirm.

"Oh god, harder, yes, _there_," she cries out as the small of her back arches up off the mattress. Using the pads of two fingers he follows her whispered commands and presses down on her joy button, moving his fingertips in a tight hard circle that makes her thighs quiver. "Mmmmm oh fuck yeah," she sighs, twisting and writhing beneath him as he lowers his mouth to lick his way around her dark areola. Sliding his hand down he pushes two fingers up inside of her, probing for that spot that will make her cry out for him. She gasps and he stops, pressing on that spot again. She cries out, her nails dig a furrow in his back and as he watches, milk leaks from her nipples.

Curious, he licks the few drops from her breast. It's warm and sweet and as his lips close around her nipple a few more drops leak out. Realizing that she might think this is crossing the line he rolls his eyes up to meet hers only to find them closed and her top teeth embedded into her bottom lip.

"You…like that?" he asks, sliding up to nuzzle her neck, bite down on her earlobe.

"One of the nurses said something about a love hormone or something," she mutters and turns to curl her body into his. "Makes you want to be held," she adds, walking her fingers up his chest before meeting his gaze.

"Is that…all you want to do?" he asks, hoping and praying she will give the answer he wants.

"No," she purrs, offering her mouth again, which he takes as he rolls her beneath him. He settles himself between her thighs and she reaches down to guide him to her entrance. Holding his breath he stays there, though it takes every last drop of his will power not to immediately shove himself balls deep inside of her. "Do it," she whispers, a husky edge to her voice.

"Sure?" he asks while every muscle in his body strains to stay there, to hold back his inner beast.

"Fuck me Crosby," she growls and it is such a departure from the usually sweet girl he has come to know that his balls tighten, his inner beast growls and he loses that hard fought control and slams his cock home.

* * *

><p>It is nothing like the first time. He is not the selfish self centered bastard that fucked her like she was nothing better than a blow up doll. He holds her close while his body rocks against hers, his cock buried deep within her and he whispers her name into her neck. He is like an anaconda, his huge, muscular body coiled so tight around her that she nearly cannot catch her breath.<p>

"Yes baby," he whispers, as she locks her ankles behind his massive thighs, "yes like that."

"Harder," she hisses, her nails digging into his ass, begging him to fuck her deeper. Like the professional athlete he is, he responds immediately, redoubling his efforts, his body like a piston in a massive diesel engine, his hips slamming against hers, pinning her to the bed.

"Oh Jessssssuusss," he moans into the curve of her neck. "God Fern…oh god baby." She arches her back, pressing her body up against his, wanting to be even closer. He moans again and reaches down between them, his fingers searching for and finding her clit, pressing against it, rubbing it hard and fast. "Cum…cum for me," he whispers urgently.

"Close," she moans, meeting him thrust for thrust, her body zinging with electricity, her own breathing quick and sharp in her own ears.

"Do it baby," he whispers, rubbing her clit like he's trying to shine up a car, "I wanna feel you fucking cum all over my cock." Dirty words coming out of those full, pink lips make her shudder and she lets herself go, her fingernails dragging up from the middle of his ass to his shoulders while she screams his name. He gasps, his body going still, his head buried in her neck. She can hear him pant, short sharp breaths and then his head tips back and he roars like a lion. His body jerks with each spasm of his cock as his balls empty inside of her and then he collapses, his full weight on top of her. "Fucking wow," he moans and then rolls to the side and pulls her into him, wrapping his body around hers. "Better?" he whispers, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"Better," she agrees and snuggles into him, pulling his arms tighter around herself, a cocoon of muscle and warm skin.

"Merry Christmas Fern," he adds, nuzzling the top of her head, "I'm so glad to have you and Simon home. Best present ever," he adds.

"This was good too," she sighs, closes her eyes and lets her limp relaxed muscles, the soft luxurious sheets and the heat of his body drag her down into sleep.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

He is groggy when he rolls over to find her side of the bed empty and cold. Despite her having got up for each and every feeding throughout the night the interruption to his sleep cycle makes the bed feel too comfortable to leave. Years of training, of rolling out of bed for pre-dawn practices and the promise of a pre-dinner nap allows him to drag himself out of bed and across the carpet to the bathroom where he must lean heavily on the wall with one hand to drain his bladder.

His eyes are still half closed when he steps into the shower and turns his face up into the scalding hot water. He knows he cannot afford to be a step slow today. Preparing to face his father is not unlike preparing for a game against the Caps or the Flyers; it requires a different mindset, a wariness that goes beyond just being on his toes so it is essential that he wash away the cobwebs.

Pressing both palms flat against the tiled wall he lets the hot water run over his neck and down his back. He hasn't thought about his symptoms in a while and sends out mental feelers for them now and finds none; just the sting of the hot water in the welts on his back. With a smile he reaches for the shampoo and pours a quarter sized dollop in his hand and begins to work it through his thick dark hair.

His smile grows as his thoughts turn to the events of the previous night. The memory of her body moving beneath his stirs his loins so he reaches down and curls his fingers around his dick and relives the moment of waking up in the middle of the night with her body curled into his, the sweet sigh escaping her lips as he helped himself to a handful of her heavy breast, as he took her, her body warm and relaxed in sleep.

There have been women, perhaps not as many as the notches in Gronk's or Tanger's bedposts, but enough for him to know that she is different. He hadn't known how it would be, after a child, but he had not expected for her to fit him so perfectly, to make him lose sleep with the need to take her, again and again.

Not that she was exactly complaining. Every time she'd come back from checking on or feeding Simon, she'd fit her body close to his, drape her arm over his waist and he would wake, already ready and willing to roll her beneath him and bury himself inside of her, feast on her lips and get lost in her arms.

"I put him in this outfit Vero bought for him. It's still kind of big but I couldn't resist, he's so cute in it and…oh!" Caught red handed he can do nothing bug stare as she stares at him with eyes wide with shock and he stares back, flames of mortification licking beneath his skin. "I'm sorry. I should've knocked," she cries, turning away.

"No, fuck! You shouldn't have to knock on a door in your own house, and besides, you would think I got enough last night," he mutters, violently cranking off the water and pushing the glass door open to grab a towel from the warming rack.

"Well…yeah you would," she agrees and he can hear the smile in her voice.

"I'm sorry," he adds more quietly, lifting a lock of hair from her shoulder and pressing a kiss to the bare skin above the deep burgundy sweater she's wearing.

"No _I'm_ sorry," she mumbles. "I mean, it's a perfectly natural thing, I guess, even though, like you said, you'd think it would be worn out," she adds, glancing back at him. He takes her lips as she offers them and looks down at the tiny bundle in her arms; Simon in a miniature snowman sleep hugger.

"That's fucking adorable," he chuckles, reaching around to lay his hand against his son's round cheek.

"Hey…you're gonna have to stop swearing so much," she hisses at him, "tiny ears."

"Yeah, I guess," he sighs before pressing another affectionate kiss to her cheek. "You look shattered. Let me get dressed and I'll take a turn with him so you can put your head down for a bit."

"I'm fine," she argues, following him into the bedroom.

"I just woke up between rounds, you were the one up on your feet, singing and feeding him and all that jazz. The least I can fuck…the least I can do is carry him around for a couple hours," he offers, dropping the towel on the end of the bed and reaching into his dresser drawer for a pair of white tube socks. He is pulling the second one on when he realizes that there is utter silence in the room and looks up to find her not just watching, but staring at him.

"Sorry," she mumbles and turns away again, but not before he sees that her cheeks have turned bright crimson. "I just…it's gonna take me some time to get used to seeing you…and not…y'know…wanting it." With a wolfish grin he gets up and gives her ass a firm, open handed smack.

"If you didn't have my son in your arms I'd have already had you on the bathroom counter," he whispers hoarsely in her ear before reaching around her to drag his jeans from the back of a chair. She waits until he finishes pulling them up and buttoning them before she gingerly places their son in his arms.

"Your son huh?" she says quietly, one hand still resting on their baby's stomach. "I'll remind you of that at two in the morning."

"I told you last night I'd go," he reminds her, leaning to press a soft kiss to his son's forehead.

"Yeah well, it's still a novelty for me. I'll let you know when that wares off," she says and then makes a very unsuccessful attempt at stifling a yawn.

"See, you're dead on your feet," he tells her quietly. "I can do this. Go to sleep. I'll get you up in plenty of time to get showered and changed before anyone gets here." She looks at their son and then up at him and makes a tired, resigned face.

"There's just so much to do," she yawns again and because it only takes one arm to hold his son he uses his other hand to guide her towards their bed.

"That's why your mom is bringing most of the food and my mom is bringing the desert and snacks or whatever, so all you'd have to do is look after this little guy and rest, which is what the doctor says you need to do. So get in that bed and sleep for a while." Then he adds because he can see the doubt clear in her eyes, "I swear I can look after him. I'm his dad." A slow, bemused smile spreads across her face as she goes up on tip toes to press a soft and, he tell himself, grateful, kiss to his lips.

"If he's too much or he starts really crying…," she begins but he silences her with his mouth pressed against hers'.

"Sleep," he insists and waits for her to climb under the covers before he turns out the light and heads down the hallway. "Just you and me buddy," he tells his son who looks back at him with wide, amber coloured eyes ringed in green. Balancing his burden carefully in the crook of his arm Sid heads down the stairs, taking them slowly and carefully, one stair at a time. "What should we do huh?" he asks aloud as he heads through the living room and into the kitchen. "Cereal or oatmeal?" With his free hand he opens the pantry door and reaches for the boxes on the top shelf. There is a box of All Bran and a box of Raisin Crisp but right next to them is a box of Cocoa Puffs and a box of Cupcake Pebbles that definitely are not his. "Fuck it. It's Christmas right Si?" he grins and reaches for the box of Cocoa Puffs.

Keeping his son carefully balanced in the crook of his arm, he puts the box on the counter and gets a bowl down. He's heading for the fridge and the milk when the sound of a car rolling up the drive makes him freeze. He curses again, this time under his breath as he glances at the car seat, still sitting on the kitchen table, before turning and heading back through the living room, across the landing and to the side door. Looking down at the tiny bundle in his arms he sighs.

"This is my fault Si," he whispers and caresses the soft curls on the top of his son's head apologetically before tugging open the door. His mother's hand is half way to the door knob, shopping bags hanging from one arm and a brightly wrapped parcel under the other.

"Merry Christmas mom," he says quietly and waits until her gaze slides slowly up from the door handle to his face and then, more quickly, back down to the little bundle in the crook of his arm.

"_What_…is…that?" It isn't his mother's voice, though the expression in her eyes reads the same.

"_This_ is Simon, your grandson."

* * *

><p>She is running on no sleep, her nerves are frayed and she is quickly running out of patience as she watches Troy Crosby pace across the living room for what seems like the millionth time. Hers, however, are the only set of eyes on the big man with the bulging vein in his forehead. Every other pair of eyes is glued on the small, confetti like remains of the cheque she has just handed back to him.<p>

"You're making a _huge_ fucking mistake," Sidney's father growls again like a bear who has just recently sat on a hive of yellow jackets.

"Yeah you've said that," Sidney replies with a sigh, his head hung low but not in a way that suggests he is beaten, merely beaten down.

"Well you're obviously not fucking listening," Troy adds in a threatening tone, beads of sweat breaking out across his broad forehead, his eyes straining like they're trying to break out of their sockets; a gruesome thought but one that makes it hard for Fern not to smile at him as he glares daggers at her. He is trying to intimidate her in the same way that it is clear his entire family is cowed by his aggression but she has found a new strength and it only takes a quick look down at the round, emerald rimmed eyes of her son and she is like a mother bear, unafraid and unyielding.

"I tried it your way dad and I almost missed out on seeing my son born. This," Sid adds, reaching to cup his hand around Simon's pudgy red cheek, "is non-fucking-negotiable."

"Both of you…the cursing," Trina, Sid's mother, pleads with a longing glance towards her grandchild, who she has yet to approach though it is clear she wants to, very much.

"You," Troy's Bavarian sausage sized finger wavers in the air as he points at her, "were supposed to stay away from him." She gently bounces Simon in her arms and smiles at the big man before replying.

"I did. Your son came after me," she says calmly, matter-of-factly. Troy makes a face and a guttural sound of disgust before shaking his head.

"You're lying," he snarls, waving his meatloaf hand dismissively at her and then turning his back.

"Dad!" Sid snaps but Fern reaches over and gently presses him back down onto the couch.

"I can't help that you think that," she insists, very calmly and with the same amused smile on her face, "and we can certainly spend the day arguing it if that's what you'd like to do but I think that even though you think you're ruining my day all you're really accomplishing is ruining the day for your wife and your daughter," she adds softly but firmly. She feels Sid cover her hand with his own bigger, warm one and when she looks over all she sees in his gaze is appreciation and pride. She aims a bigger smile at Sid and then turns her attention back to his father.

"What are you, some kind of fucking witch? You've got him under some kind of spell?" Troy snaps at her, spittle flying. His wife cringes and his daughter tries even harder to dig herself into the corner of the couch.

"You know what? You can get the _fuck_ out of my house," Sid hisses at his father, like a cat getting ready to scratch. Predictably, Troy is unfazed.

"Well we're doing the DNA test. I bet it's not even his is it?" Troy smirks at her but Fern neither flinches nor looks away, both actions she knows he is hoping for.

"Actually it's already been done." As if she's wrapped her hand around a lightening rod, the shock of the words and who they've come from have her rooted to the spot. Very slowly she turns and stares at Sid who, in turn, is staring at the equally shocked expression on his father's face. "Well I knew you'd fucking insist even though I have no doubt he's mine" Sid sighs and then turns apologetic eyes on her. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. They took swabs the first night he was off the respirator and I only got the results a couple days ago. In fact I haven't even opened the envelope. I don't need to. I know," he adds gripping her hand tightly in his.

"You could have told me," she whispers, feeling smaller and less certain of herself than she did a moment ago.

"I don't even care. I trust you," he says softly, lifting the back of her hand up to his lips and pressing an earnest kiss there. "I know he's mine Fern, I know. I don't need some piece of paper to tell me what I know," he adds, pressing his other hand to the centre of his chest. She searches his solemn gaze for a long moment and then takes a deep breath.

"But you should open it. You should show him, so we can all be absolutely clear."

* * *

><p>His hands don't tremble even slightly when he rips open the envelope, though he is careful not to rip the contents. He is cautious when he pulls out the single sheet of thick bond paper from the manila envelope. The certificate listed the testing facility, the two samples and then a bunch of numbers in a chart he didn't really understand. The only thing that truly mattered on the entire sheet was the conclusion, which read:<p>

**The probability of Mr. Sidney Patrick Crosby being the biological father of Simon Marc Crosby is 99.9999%. Therefore it is practically proven that Mr. Sidney Patrick Crosby is the biological father of Simon Marc Crosby**.

He hadn't needed to see the proof himself. He has always been able to see it in Simon's eyes and even before that, he'd felt it, like an invisible fishing line attaching him to the still tiny boy in his mother's arms. Turning the piece of paper so the proof in black and white is facing his father, he presses the sheet of paper into the middle of Troy's chest.

"I don't want to hear another word, not a single fucking word about this, _ever_ again," he growls, making sure each of his digits presses hard and deep into the barrel of his father's massive chest. It had been a strong chest that stopped pucks once. Now it was soft from lack of work, from living off his son. Sidney's top lip curled up as he stared up into his father's eyes. "Are we clear?"

"She's not even supposed to be here," his father smirks back, "don't you have some sort of protection order against her?" Sid throws up his hands and begins to walk away but Troy is far from done with the argument. His son comes by his competitive streak naturally.

"Troy, honey, don't you think we should let it drop?" his mother pleads quietly in her mousy voice. His father doesn't spare her a look. His fierce, menacing grin is all for his son.

"I'll get around to clearing all that up. I've been a little too busy with my _family_," he replies as calmly as he is able, through clenched teeth. His hands are balled into fists at his side. He tells himself, over and over, that he will not raise a hand to his father, but that voice is getting quieter and quieter.

"Yes, I've noticed. I think everyone's noticed. How do you think it will look when it gets out that you're not suffering from post concussion syndrome but playing house instead of playing?" This is a dart whose sting he cannot avoid, mostly because the guilt has been eating at his conscience.

"I'll play, right after the all star break," he promises. His father scoffs, loudly.

"I sure as fuck wouldn't want you on my team, mister deserter," he says triumphantly. Sid feels himself shrink before the truth. He knows the guys have told him they support him but he's heard the rumors, loud and clear.

"He _is_ the Penguins," Fern says suddenly, handing her son off to his mother who takes her grandson with a grin as wide as the ocean. "He's the best fucking hockey player in the world and they will take him back with open arms," she adds in a slow, menacing voice of her own that he remembers from outside of the diner. She reaches for his hand and he takes it, lacing her fingers in his own.

"He's soft. You can't be soft and be a pro," his father rolls his eyes and aims a disappointed look at his son. "You can't put family first if you want to be the best."

"God knows you didn't, right? Look where that big time sacrifice got _you_." He cannot believe the words have come out of her sweet mouth and it's because he's staring at Fern that he doesn't see his father raise his hand until the back of it leaves a huge, red welt across her pale, white cheek.


	29. Chapter 29

_You wouldn't believe my week, even if I told you. Sorry for the wait..._

**Chapter 29**

He wakes to the sound of raised, angry voices and Fern's face hovering above his. It takes a moment but eventually he can make out the livid, red welt on her cheek but there isn't pain in her eyes. There is, however, concern and, worst of all, fear.

"I don't like your father," she whispers, an almost smile on her face as she strokes his cheek.

"Get in line," he mutters, trying to sit up but the room begins to spin so he lies back down, back onto her lap, and closes his eyes. "What happened?" He remembers this feeling, or thinks that he does, though he doesn't remember losing consciousness before and he knows he must have, if only because the last thing he remembers he was upright.

"Well, near as I can guess, you were doing an impression of a linebacker, or I think that's what they're called because honestly I don't watch football," she adds, the corner of her mouth twitching with amusement though her dark eyes haven't lost an ounce of fear, especially when she glances up towards the doorway. "Oh good, they're in the kitchen" she breathes, "with all the sharp knives." He listens, closing his eyes and picking out the voices; his mother's small worried voice, his father's booming, angry voice and then another, softer, more reasonable one.

"Your parents…," he hisses, trying again to get up, wincing as a sharp pain at the base of his skull makes him catch his breath. "Ow…my head."

"Mmmm, thank your father for that," she says as he feels her fingers gently probing the back of his skull. "Nothing broken, I think, but then I'm not an expert." He drags in a sharp breath as he forces himself upright and closes his eyes tight against the spinning room.

"So what did I do, miss?" he asks, flinching as her probing fingers find a tender spot.

"Not so much miss as you were deflected when your father did a pretty boss move of directing you to the corner kind of like Flower does, blocker save," she explains and he tries to smile, though even that hurts. "Guess he's not that a bad goalie after all," she adds and he laughs and then winces again.

"Are you okay?" he asks, reaching for her hand and pulling it against his chest.

"Oh I'll live," she sighs and he opens his eyes to study the welt on her cheek. His teeth grind together and he forces himself to his feet, ignoring the way the world seems to tilt beneath him and turns towards the kitchen.

"I'll kill him," he growls, stumbling only when she pulls back on the hand he is still holding.

"How about after the medics have a look at you," she pleads softly, her eyes big when he turns to look at her. He shakes his head. Paramedics, ambulances….

"No, no you haven't called them have you?" he hisses at her. She blinks, frowns and then tilts her head to the side like a bird.

"Of course I did. You were unconscious," she says, looking at him as if he's the one that's done, said, something outrageous.

"They can't come here baby," he tells her, moving to hold her against him. "If they do then they'll have to write a report and then they'll have to arrest him and…."

"And? And I'll tell you what, that brute spends the night in the drunk tank and leans that someone will stand up to him? First of all, hello, he _hit_ me and secondly, what if I'd Simon in my arms when he hit me?" Sid opens his mouth to argue but a little voice in his head tells him to think about what she's just said and his argument dies on the tip of his tongue. She is simply right and there is no argument. "And you will go to the hospital," she adds when he his focus shifts back to the sharp pain in his neck.

"It's just a bump," he sighs, lifting her hand to press his lips on her knuckles.

"Just a bump maybe, but a bump on the back of your head and your head is important to me," she whispers, lifting her other hand to thread through his hair, "not to mention to pretty much all of Canada and like ninety per cent of Pittsburgh and…."

"I did not push him that hard, he fell," his father's voice booms from the kitchen and Sid turns to watch his father emerge, red faced with the veins in his temple throbbing.

"Yes, because he's so uncoordinated normally," Fern sneers at his old man. He aims a grateful smile down at her and then faces his father.

"She's called the cops, you know that right?" he asks quietly. His father stops and turns to stare, disbelief clear on his face. "I don't care what you did or didn't do to me," he adds, his arm curled protectively around Fern's shoulder but with his other hand he gently urges her to turn her cheek so the evidence of his father's crime is staring him in the face. "But for this…for _this_ I'm done with you, for once and for all." The whine of sirens breaks the silence of the small suburban cul-de-sac but a heavier silence fills the room around him as he stares his father down.

"Sidney," his mother begins, that familiar plea in her voice that she has so often employed in her husband's favor.

"No mom…no more. He's gone too far. Time to get off the ride dad," he says quietly and then turns a half smile towards her father. "Mr. Smith, if you can get the door for the police?"

"You don't want to do this son," Fern's dad says as he steps between them, using a calm, reasonable voice and not the 'father knows best' tone his own patriarch would have.

"I actually do," Sid replies, his unwavering gaze still focused on his father.

"You'll have enough to deal with when news about our daughter and grandson get out," Mr. Smith says, laying one hand gently but firmly on Sid's shoulder and the other hand affectionately on his daughter's cheek. "You don't want to add a domestic disturbance call to the list for the internet gossips to chew on." It is a reasonable argument but one look down at the still livid mark on Fern's cheek and Sid shakes his head.

"No…he has to pay for this," he says quietly, more to Fern than anyone else. Her dark eyes are turned up to his, her gaze calm, not, he thinks, anything like his.

"Please don't Sid, please, for me." It's the first Taylor has spoken all night and his gaze automatically swivels to meet hers'. Her eyes are swollen and rivulets of tears run down her cheeks. His stomach knots. There is rarely anything he will not give his younger sibling. He knows that living in his shadow is almost unbearable for her, save that he provides for her in every way that he can and is always conscious of how little attention their father affords her. It is his Achilles. It is the guilt that gnaws at him now as she aims those big eyes of hers at him. And yet, when he looks back down at the mark on Fern's face, his resolve begins to re-solidify.

"Then for Simon," she says quietly, only to him. "Don't let him read about this one day on the internet when he's older." His shoulders sag but he cannot refuse them both.

"Fine, fine, send them away but _you_," he turns his gaze back on his father and steels himself so that there can be no question about the command he is about to give. "I want you to leave, now and you're not welcome here anymore."

* * *

><p>"Broken?"<p>

"Well no, not broken, but I think compromised in some manner. There is certainly something there but I do think that you should definitely get a second opinion. I'm not expert."

Fern sits quietly on the edge of the chair and goes over the words the doctor has just said and then turns to Sid, who, while he sits further back in his chair, is blanched and white knuckling the arms of the seat. She reaches for one of those hands and while he does not withdraw it when she peels his fingers from the arm, his remains limp and boneless in hers'.

"You hear that? It could just be a flaw in the film," she tells him though she doesn't believe it herself."

"How long?" he asks, in a voice that sounds as if it's coming forma smaller, younger version of himself.

"Healing process?" The doctor strokes his chin thoughtfully and then tips his glasses further down the bridge of his Roman nose. "Well if my diagnosis is correct and I'm far from convinced that it is, it could be some weeks before you are feeling better and as for playing…well, I think I would leave that up to your team physician to decide."

As she watches Sid hangs his head and reaches back, his fingers feeling for a flaw that may, or may not be there, under his skin. She lays her hand over his.

"We'll get a second opinion. It might be nothing," she urges gently.

"My father did this to me," he grumbles. Her fingers slip down to his cheek and he raises his gaze to meet hers'.

"It could just be a bruise. It doesn't have to be anything worse than that to hurt," she tells him, meaning it and putting all of her faith in her words so that he sees it in her eyes. He nods, though she can see clearly that her words have not done anything to take the edge from the fear that is in his eyes.

"I'm sure your team has access to more sophisticated equipment and experts in this field," the doctor in bright white his lab coat and mint green scrubs says as if he would like to get his hands on such things as he gets to his feet and offers his hand. Sid takes it and shakes it, though she notices it is not the firm, business like handshake he would normally offer.

"Thanks for your time doc," he says quietly and then, gingerly, gets to his feet before offering her a hand up, an offer she doesn't take, turning instead to the stroller and busying herself with the blankets and bundle inside so that he doesn't see her own fear. "I'm sorry," he says, mostly under his breath.

"What have you got to be sorry for?" she asks, tucking the tiny blanket around the tiny form of their son, sleeping soundly on his back.

"He's my father and he ruined his first Christmas," Sidney sighs, reaching past her to brush his knuckles along Simon's tiny cheek. Their son's mouth opens and he yawns but his eyes never open but his fist goes into his mouth and he begins to suck.

"He won't remember this. No one remembers their first Christmas," she says as she straightens and aims the carriage toward the door but his hand closes around her upper arm and stops her from getting ahead of him.

"I'm sorry about our Christmas too." She turns to him, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.

"Don't be. This is…this is definitely the best Christmas I've had since I got a tricycle when I was four. I'm only sorry you're hurt," she adds, reaching up to cup his cheek in her hand. He leans into it and closes his eyes.

"You're just saying that to keep the peace," he mumbles. "You _must_ be mad."

"Why must I?" she asks, a teasing lilt to her voice.

"Because I'll feel worse if you're not," he grumbles and then smile as she rolls her eyes.

"Oh well in that case, you're a dick and you owe me a Christmas present," she teases and gives his cheek a gentle smack.

"Oh fuck!" his eyes widen as he covers his mouth his hand.

"Let me guess," she says as she rolls her eyes dramatically, "you completely forgot?"

"Kind of yeah," he admits as she heaves a heavy sigh.

"Well then I take back what I said about this being the best Christmas ever. C'mon Crosby, let's go home," she says softly, reaching for the pram with one hand and his with the other. She watches his hand cover hers' and looks up into those golden brown eyes and thinks there isn't a present in the world as good as just having him look at her the way he does then.

* * *

><p>He had not been exactly truthful about forgetting her present but the moment he'd thought he'd have, with their families around them, presents and multi-coloured paper strewn across the floor had not happened. Not that she's mentioned it. Her parents had greeted them with a scaled down dinner and not brought his family's absence up even once and he is grateful not to have to go over it, pick at it like a turkey vulture on a corpse.<p>

Once Simon is fed and in his cot and her parents have gone home and it is just the two of them sitting in the dark with only the lights on the tree illuminating the dark and Christmas carols playing softly in the background he slips a slim black velvet box onto her lap.

"What's this?" she asks, her fingers brushing across the top of the box.

"Open it and find out," he tells her with a grin, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek when she frowns.

"Well it can't be a Christmas present because it's not wrapped," she replies with a smirk.

"There's a ribbon," he points out, reaching around to pull at one end of the gold ribbon tied around the middle of the box.

"Maybe it's a good thing you were such a dick to me for so long, you'd already ruined my vision of you so stuff like this is not so disappointing," she giggles, toying with the other end of the bow.

"Quit yer bitchin' and open it," he snorts as he wraps his arms around her middle and pulls her back against him. As he watches over her shoulder, she unties the ribbon and sets it carefully aside, as if she might use it again, and then, very slowly, she opens the box, just half an inch and peers inside before snapping it shut again. "What?" he asks.

"It's really sparkly," she replies in a tiny voice.

"How can you tell? You hardly opened it," he asks, digging his fingers into her ribs and making her squirm.

"I can just tell," she informs him and tries to lay the box aside as if it might burn her, our bite.

"Open it," he growls playfully and digs his fingers into her ribs, making her squirm and wriggle against him.

"Fine, okay!" she huffs and reaches for the box again, opening it. gingerly lifting the necklace out and holding it up so that the ring on the end of the chain dangles in front of her eyes, catching the light from the Christmas tree, making the three stones in the simple antique gold band glimmer. "It's beautiful," she says breathlessly and without a hint of the disappointment he'd anticipated.

He reaches for the chain. She drops it carefully into his hand and he slides the ring from the simple chain leaving a simple gold locket behind. He slips the necklace around her neck and fastens it. While he's fussing with the clasp he hears her say 'oh' almost entirely under her breath.

"When did you take this?" she asks. He doesn't need to look to know that she has the locket open or what is inside.

"In the hospital, the night they took the breathing tubes out, when I could let myself believe he'd be okay," Sid answers haltingly. "You can put a newer one in there if you want," he adds, thinking how much stronger and pinker Simon looks now.

"No," she says turning to dazzle him with her smile. "I love it even more now that you've said that." He returns her smile while deftly, and without needing to look, slips the ring on her hand.

"I want you to consider this a place holder," he tells her, guiding her hand up so that it catches the light and the three stones shine back at her; one sapphire, the topaz in the middle and the purple amethyst on the other side.

"A promise ring?" she asks, snuggling back into him while leaving her hand in his, held up in front of both of their eyes.

"Yeah I mean…I don't think we're ready for all that, y'know, other stuff but…we're a family, right?" he asks, suddenly insecure, especially after their disaster of a day.

"Yeah," she agrees, lacing her fingers in his and bringing his arm around her so she is cradled protectively against his bigger body. She falls silent for a moment and he itches to ask her what she's thinking, worried that he's either pushed it too far or, equally, not far enough. "How'd you know…my birthstone, how'd you find out?" she asks softly. He runs the pad of his thumb across it and smiles to himself.

"I asked your mom," he admits and he almost hears her smiling in response.

"Your dad would've hated this," she tells him suddenly and with an equally sudden grin he realizes that she is right, that it is perfect that his bear of a father is not here to witness this. He would, indeed have hated this. "He'll get over it though," she promises him and of that he is not at all certain.

"Maybe, maybe not, but my mom and Taylor will want to see Simon. Did you see the look on my mom's face when you put him in her arms? I can hardly remember ever seeing her that happy," he admits, his voice trailing away as he remembers the look of pride on both of his parent's faces when he won the Cup. That might have been the last time.

"We'll figure something out," Fern tells him quietly, looking up at him and he believes the intensity in her eyes when she says it. This girl, this girl that he thought wasn't much of anything that, as he looks at her now, he knows he is better for having her by his side and that now that she is there, he will always want her there.

"Yeah," he agrees pressing his lips tenderly to her forehead. "It'll all work out. It always does."

**_I'm not sure...I think this might be the end?_**


	30. Chapter 30

_In the spirit of welcoming back Sid to the ice tonight_**_  
><em>**

**_Epilogue_**

Scott Oake, long time rink side commentator for the CBC looks up from his notes at his entrance. Perhaps he heard his footsteps or felt the change in the mood of the room from expectant to charged at the young phenom's appearance, but the veteran reporter meets his eyes, smiles warmly and extends his hand.

"Thanks for taking the time to do this Sid," he says sincerely.

"No problem." The right answer might have been that it was his pleasure but right now his nerves are literally tingling, like pop rocks mixed with Coke on your tongue. He settles into the vacant leather chair opposite the man with the thinning grey hair and the glasses. The room is overflowing with men in jeans and Mac jackets adjusting lights, cables, cameras and one woman who approaches him with a make-up bag.

He sits still while she drapes his shoulders and chest with paper towel before she begins to dab at his face with her cool, expert fingers, working quickly to cover the pimple on his chin and dust his face with powder. He's been through this countless times. It doesn't faze him, not even when she aims an eyeliner pencil towards him. He rolls his eyes skyward and takes a breath.

"Big day eh?" Scott says conversationally. Sid is careful not to nod, though it's his first instinct.

"Yep," he replies succinctly.

"Nervous?" The butterflies in his stomach answer by rising up and beating their wings.

"A little, yeah," he smiles and blinks rapidly as she pulls back and surveys her work. Seeming satisfied she begins to pack up her bag. "Uh…what about my wife?" he asks quietly, his voice pitched low as if for her ears only but the entire room falls silent.

"She's done an excellent job on her own but hair's with her now," the woman replies brightly, snapping her case shut and turning to go.

"Thanks," he breathes and twists the still unfamiliar gold band on his finger.

"I still do that," Scott says, mimicking his movements, twisting the thin band on his own long fingers. Sid gives him a grateful smile and tries to still his hands, pressing his palms down on his knees. "Are we ready?" Scott asks to no one in particular, looking around at the crew. A man with a headset and a clip board gives him a thumbs-up signal and Scott raises an eyebrow at Sid who nods, once. "Okay, so, how's it feel to be back…_again_?"

"I'm excited, obviously," he replies, feeling a grin tugging at the corners of his full mouth. "It's good to back."

"Was there ever a point in the last few months when you thought, this might be it, I might never play again?"

"No," he replies immediately. "There were some setbacks that were…frustrating to say the least but no, I always knew this day would come." The reporter raises a thoughtful finger towards his lips and sits further back in his chair. Sid recognizes the signal and feels those butterflies beating their wings harder. The easy questions are over.

"Have you made any changes in anticipation of your return? Any changes to your routine?" It's a smoke signal, an opportunity to spill his guts without having to be prodded.

"I've had to," he replies and right on cue there is a noise in the background. He looks up and sees her and feels a grin spread across his face. She is wearing a simple black fitted sheath dress, dark hose and sturdy, matronly heels. Her being deliberately unremarkable is a deliberate choice, but to him she looks like a supermodel with her hair falling softly down around her shoulders and her dark rimmed glasses highlighting her chocolate brown eyes. She smiles at him and then drops a kiss onto the top of their son's head. Every pair of eyes in the room has swiveled towards her and as they all watch, she waits for his signal. "I've had some changes in my life that, fortunately, have made it easier for me not to focus so much on hockey."

"Some pretty big changes," Scott agrees with a smirk and a twinkle in his eye. Sid nods and pats the arm of the leather chair. Fern carefully winds her way between the light stands and the cameras, picking her way through and over the cables. He watches her the entire way. Their gazes locked, she hands him his son and then perches lightly on the arm of the chair..

"Hey buddy," he coos, adjusting Simon's weight in his arms. The bundle of blue cotton kicks and squirms and makes a happy sound. He tickles Simon's plump little belly and is rewarded by a throaty giggle. Turning, he offers his lips to Fern and she presses a quick peck to his mouth.

"Sid, would you like to introduce everyone?" Scott prompts and Sid blinks at him, dragged back to reality from the warm cocoon of his family's presence.

"This is my wife, Fern and our son…Simon." He knows the camera will come in tight on the rosy cheeks of his son and tips his arm up to make it easier. Fern reaches across him to adjust the blanket. Her fingers linger on Simon's chest and then retreat.

"So you did more than just off -ice training in your time away from the rink," Scott smiles encouragingly at Sid.

"It was good to have a little time for my family," he replies without going into detail which is exactly how he, his agent and the CBC had agreed to leave it. The details of his personal life were just that, personal and if they wanted to go into detail about the side trip to Vegas from California for a quickie wedding, they could, at a later date; just not today.

"I bet they've helped you to focus on your health and not dwell so much on a return date."

"My focus has definitely shifted," he agrees, looking down at the still tiny bundle in his arms. "This little guy has helped me to prioritize. I could maybe have gotten back on the ice sooner but I think having Si has helped me realize that my health has to be a priority, not only for myself but that I can't give a hundred percent to my team unless I'm feeling a hundred percent."

"But you are back on the ice today. Are you looking forward to it?"

"I am," he replies without hesitation. "I love playing. I love this game and there's absolutely nothing like getting out on the ice with your team in front of the fans. I've missed it. It will be great to get out there." He feels her hand on his shoulder and glances up at her and smiles. She holds her hands out and he reluctantly gives up his son and slides him carefully into her arms. Simon goes without a sound and he watches them go, watches her wind her way through the cameras and crew with a heavy heart.

"Will you make any changes to your game this time?" Scott asks and Sid nods, returning his attention to the man across from him.

"I think I'll be more reluctant to get involved in the after the whistle stuff. I think last time I wanted to prove to my team and to myself that I was back a hundred per cent. I think now I have a reason…two reasons to be more selfish and try and avoid getting injured again."

"Are you worried about that? Will you worry about it on the ice?" He thinks about his answer for a long moment and then nods.

"I don't want to, but I think I'd be lying if I said it won't enter into my mind. I think I have to be smart out there and know where I am on the ice but at the same time, I think that the entire league is doing its best to try and avoid these kinds of injuries from occurring." Scott sets his cards aside and Sid presses his hands flat on his thighs.

"Do you expect to get hit tonight?"

"I don't expect not to get hit, let's put it that way," he grins and then laughs at the memory of meeting Rupper in the halls of MSG earlier in the day. All his old friend had said was 'keep your head up kid'. Oh he was going to get hit alright.

"How about this then, you scored two goals and had two assists back in November in a game against the Islanders. Do you expect a similar game tonight?" Sid shrugs. He knew this question would come and he knows that those who have never been on the ice in front of thousands of fans don't know what it's like.

"That was a really emotional game for me and obviously I had fun out there that night but I don't go into any game thinking that I'm going to have a big game. I mean, I hope so, obviously, but what you really think when you step on the ice is that you want to have a good game, you want to play well but you want everyone to play well. I guess that's really what I'll be hoping for tonight; that we do well as a team." Scott smirks and Sid knows exactly what the veteran reporter is thinking; that he's just given one of those answers he's always accused of giving, the scripted politically correct answer. He can't help that, even if it sounds that way, it also happens to be true.

"Does it matter to you what line Dan Bylsma puts you on tonight? If it's Cookie and Kennedy or if it's Malkin and Neal?" Sid shakes his head.

"I'm comfortable with whatever Coach asks me to do. I don't think, right now, that I've earned the right to break up what's been working with Gino and Nealer but I'm happy to work with anyone on this team. I think we've got a great depth of talent and everyone's happy to work with everyone else." Again Scott gives him that look that says he'd hoped for more but Sid presses his lips together. Like it or not, it's the only answer he'll give.

"Well good luck out there tonight. I know everyone's happy to see you back." Scott leans forward and offers his hand. Sid does the same.

"I'm happy to be back," he replies and just like that it's over. The lights go off and the cameras stop rolling and he feels like he can breathe for the first time today. Blowing out a long breath he gets to his feet.

"Are you happy with that?" Pat, his agent, steps from behind one of the cameras.

"I think so," he replies quietly. "You?"

"I think you did well," Pat replies and pats his shoulder. "I'll see you after the game, okay?" Sid smiles at him and then holds his hand out to Scott Oake again.

"Thanks for agreeing to this," he says sincerely.

"It was our pleasure," Scott says and then he too is gone, leaving Sid standing in the middle of an empty set that the strangers around him have begun to dismantle. He looks at the empty chairs and then he looks up between the cameras and she is there, like a Baroque Madonna and Child. A slow smile spreads across his face and an answering smile spreads across her lips. She lifts Simon's hand to make him wave and Sid grins and laughs.

"Coming?" she calls. He nods and shucks his sport jacket. Tossing it over his shoulder he weaves through the film crew until he is at her side where he bends to press a fatherly kiss on his son's forehead and then leans in a captures his wife's mouth with his own. "My mom said she'd have him while you go down for your afternoon nap," she whispers her voice breathy against his cheek.

"Yeah?" he grins as she nods, her dark eyes sparkling. "Better get going then." He reaches for her free hand and enfolds it in his own. One of the guys on the crew gives him a knowing wink as they head out of the meeting room of the hotel, heading towards the elevators. He smiles back at them wondering how he could have ever thought that the saucy minx wearing his ring would ever have been just a plain Jane.


End file.
